On the Line
by L Zaza
Summary: Starbuck and Apollo go on a challenging mission, but more than just humanity is on the line . . .
1. Chapter 1

On the Line

By Lisa Zaza

Part 1

"Shuttle to full stealth mode, now," ordered the colonel. The pilot threw a bank of switches, activating the ship's full ECM suite.

"Full stealth mode. Aye, sir."

Apollo checked his equipment for a final time, before glancing across at Starbuck. His friend looked tense as he adjusted his helmet in the rear of the shuttle, then pulled it off again, letting out a frustrated sigh and shaking his head. Apollo remembered the feeling well. Occluding your usual senses and adapting to seeing through a digitally enhanced image, it had made him feel more machine than Human, especially when the headband would never adjust properly. Add to that a night jump at ten thousand metrons. In the pitch black. Into enemy territory. Their objective: penetrate a Cylon base unobserved, disable the hangar doors to prevent any defending Raiders from taking off. A second team was to knock out the scanners and antenna array, rendering the enemy both blind and deaf, and a third to touch off the Cylon fuel and ammunition stores, causing complete chaos as well as considerable damage. Then, they had to make it back to the rendezvous point for pick up all within four centars.

Or get blown to Hades Hole if they got caught in the air strike instead.

"Tell me again, Starbuck," Apollo said, even though it was carved into his brain at this point. Reviewing the plan would tighten their focus. And get Starbuck's mind off the helmet that was so obviously distracting him.

The warrior nodded, tossing the helmet in his hands and getting a steely look from the colonel for his efforts. "We free fall with oxygen to two thousand metrons to hopefully avoid detection, as well as minimize our exposure in case we _do_ get spotted . . . the whole time trying not to freeze our astrums off. Then we pull our cords, and hope we don't break our necks with the sudden shock of the chute opening at that velocity." Starbuck shrugged. "Simple." Then he smiled wryly, "Assuming we don't get hung up in a tree, splatter on some rocks, get shot by a Cylon, or break something when we land. Oh, and here's my favourite part. That's just the first five centons." With the help of another warrior, he hefted his pack onto his back, weaving slightly under the weight. "Assuming I even make it to the jump chute under all this frackin' weight . . ."

Apollo nodded. They both knew the drill. They'd run through it repeatedly since yesterday until they'd explored every possible thing that could go wrong. All their cumulative training, every micron of experience would be put to the test. "The chute, guidance system, oxygen, optical enhancer, scanners, communications, weapons, explosives, med kit, rations, survival gear . . . sixty kilons." Apollo widened his stance as the considerable weight of his pack was loaded on his shoulders, and the straps adjusted automatically. The damn packs were almost as heavy as each man. "Thank the Lords we'll be leaving some of it behind."

"Don't lose sight of what's on the line, Apollo. Starbuck." the colonel inserted solemnly, standing akimbo watching their progress. "If the Cylons even get a whiff of our presence in this sector . . ."

"No pressure," Starbuck murmured quietly.

"We'll be over the drop zone in two centons," the pilot yelled back.

"Conditions?" Starbuck called forward. There wasn't a single star sparkling in the sky, which didn't bode well. "Visibility?"

"Deteriorating," the pilot replied. "Thunder clouds rolling in. Scanners picking up rising electrical activity. Winds are picking up. Gusts of up to 64.37 kilometrons per centar. And the temperature is dropping rapidly."

Starbuck winced, shaking his head as he turned to glance out a porthole. Murky blackness surrounded them. In the distance, a bolt of lightening momentarily lightened the murk. "Oh, _perfect_ . . ." He glanced towards the heavens moodily. "You know, after a lifetime of striking bargains, I'm beginning to get the idea that God has a warped sense of humour. This _wasn't_ the lightening of the moment I was referring to a centar ago, by the way . . . " He closed his eyes, letting out a long breath.

"Forecasts reported the weather was going to get worse, not better. If we don't go in now, Starbuck . . ." Apollo let out a breath, glancing at his friend's back. A sudden downward flow of air turbulence could plummet them to their death. A sudden gust could whip them kilometrons from the targeted landing zone, blowing their schedule all to Hades Hole. Still, to be chosen for this mission was quite an honour, even under these circumstances . . . They had the skill and the training, and together they were almost invincible. If anybody could do it, _they_ could. "We'll lose the advantage of darkness, not to mention the opportunity . . ." He trailed off.

"Status report on Beta and Gamma Teams?" the colonel called forward.

Muted voices forward indicated the co-pilot was confirming the data as they flew below Cylon scanner range. "Beta Team reported on target and proceeding. Gamma Team's away."

"Yeah, but they're further west of the storm, and less likely to get fried . . ." Starbuck murmured, glancing out the viewport again.

"Yeah," Apollo returned. It was risky.

"Colonel!" shouted the pilot, as an alarm sounded and lights blinked on the panel. "We're over the drop zone, but we have a targeting sensor failure. Our lock on the drop zone will be lost in less than . . . fifty microns."

If they didn't go now . . . "Starbuck?" Apollo probed.

The other man let out a deep breath. "It's up to you, buddy. I got you into this mess . . ."

"Not without a measure of complicity on my part . . ." Apollo replied honestly, stepping forward to squeeze Starbuck's shoulder. They both had to be one hundred percent committed to the mission, and while he was more than familiar with the reluctant hero that was his friend, he needed to tap the unwavering dedication that lay just below the protective crust of insouciance and sarcasm. "What's it gonna be?"

Starbuck turned to regard him. He raised an eyebrow as sudden amusement lit his features. "Are you actually asking me if we should jump or go home?"

"I guess I am," Apollo smiled. "I've found that with you, the phrasing is key."

"Well, you know I _always_ jump . . ."

"I was counting on it."

"So is Humanity," added the colonel as they quickly moved towards the jump chutes.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Starbuck clenched his teeth together to control the chattering as the wind tore at his body and pack. He resisted the urge to tuck his arms in tight, conserving body heat, knowing the aerodynamic posture would only increase his rate of descent. In these conditions, he didn't want to make things any worse. About two-and-a-half centons of free fall. It was like being immersed in frigid water. If he really wanted to, he could check his gear to see what the temperature was. He knew from his training it was approximately minus thirty-one to minus thirty-four, and any slight deviation from that wasn't worth the effort of checking. The Cylon base _would _have to be built in the planet's winter hemisphere. Of course. Why couldn't they _ever _build a base near a tropical beach, with palm trees and beautiful blue water? Huh? _Why_?

"Fr-fr-fr-frack . . ." he chattered through lips that were numb.

"C-c-c-old," Apollo replied through the helmet comm from somewhere ahead of him.

_Oh, what I wouldn't do for a hot turbo wash, and a warm, beautiful woman._ Starbuck sighed, getting back on track, while trying to make heads or astrums of the optical feed through the full-face helmet. Optical and acoustical enhancers with built-in scanners. It would give him night vision and improved hearing, while concurrently showing him how close—or in this case—_far off_, the mark he was to zeroing in on the landing zone. It showed up as a blip and 'x' on a grid pattern, and typically, he was the blip. He couldn't get a visual of Apollo, who'd jumped first, but knew he could track the other's signal—as well as Beta Team's—with the newest designed global coordinator system, also built into the helmet. A quick check revealed his friend's position on the grid. The GCS unit utilized recently placed military satellites, emitting intermittent low-level wavelons on an alternate frequency only when accessed. Not only would their practicality now be tested out in the field—the acid test as it were—but so would how detectable the signal was to existing Cylon scanners in orbit. It was the first time this newest version had been field-tested, and they were the guinea porcines.

He glanced at his altimeter, willing his brain to adapt to the closed-face helmet that was like sticking his head into a scanner, eclipsing his own senses in favour of purely electronic ones. It made him wish that, like Apollo, he had worn the dang thing while on duty the previous day, giving him a chance to acclimatize to the change. But then his friend had looked damned ridiculous . . . and with the hangover that Starbuck had had, he was in no mood for the ridiculous. Then there was the fact that he had always brushed off what he called "electronic felgercarb". . .

_Sometimes you have to play the game by the rules, Bucko, as much as you hate to contemplate it._

Four thousand metrons. He could detect the slight variation in temperature as he dropped closer to the mark. The cold had gone from near-lethal to utterly unbearable. The gradual increased density of the air should slow his descent slightly, from about two hundred and ninety kilometrons per centar down to a comparatively sluggish one-hundred-and-ninety-three. Flying without a Viper. He vaguely noted it wasn't what he had signed on for.

_How do you get yourself into . . . ?_

An obnoxious beeping started in his helmet, warning him to prepare to deploy his chute. It was somewhat reassuring that if his oxygen system had failed, that this klaxon in his ears was supposed to rouse him from an anoxic, unconscious state to give him a final chance to thwart a previously foregone conclusion that he would end his life as a mushie.

Starbuck looked at his altimeter again, counting down the metrons. _Fifty, forty, thirty, twenty, ten _. . . He deployed his chute, bracing himself for the resulting shock as his body performed an abrupt reverse thrust without a pressure suit or cockpit enveloping him protectively as it opened. In a Viper it was exhilarating. Here it merely indicated he had just become a slow moving target, almost helpless if a Cylon fighter or ground patrol was to spy him as he started drifting towards the landing zone. However, they had chosen this "off the beaten path" location, deducing there wouldn't be any Cylon patrols hacking their way through the thick forestation.

Deducing. It was a military word for "high hopes" base on intelligence.

Intelligence. It was military for "what had not been proven to be inaccurate" quite yet.

He altered course, pulling on his cords, and then cursing as a crosswind caught his chute. He needed to clear the trees if he was going to get down in one piece. Satellite imagery had identified a small clearing about the size of three or four Triad courts squeezed together. Coming down from the edge of space, it would be like trying to land on a cubit in the middle of a runway. With this wind, it would be even worse. The margin for error was something he didn't want to think about. There was too much to lose.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

Zeroing in on the landing zone, that little clearing was a beautiful sight, even through an optical enhancer. Still, it was still going to take precise timing and skill to clear the trees. Apollo pulled on his cords, steering slightly west and correcting his trajectory as he was buffeted once again. So far it was nothing he couldn't handle.

Then something hit his chute with a loud _screech, _the sharp noise penetrating his helmet, but also sending him plummeting into a tailspin.

"Starbuck! I'm in trouble . . .!"

His stomach was already in his throat as he hit the trees, the sharp cracking sounds of branches breaking, and the whiplash slaps against his body overwhelming his senses and filling him with panic as he plunged downward. Instinctively, he held onto his straps, willing the chute to snag onto something—_anything_—that would suspend his fall as he held his breath.

"Apollo! What's going on?" The voice was urgent.

It was like getting the mong kicked out of you by a huge thug as you helplessly just let it happen. And while the branches were breaking his fall, Apollo wasn't sure what else they were breaking as his body was wracked with pain. He gasped and groaned, more in shock than any acute awareness of his injuries. Still he dropped like a stone.

"_Apollo! Come in_!"

Abruptly, the descent stopped. Apollo's body jolted tortuously, tearing another gasp from him as he felt himself twist brutally. He dangled in the air, trying to collect his wits and calm his laboured breathing. Above him he could hear the creaking of the branches, straining under his weight.

_Alive. You're alive. _

"Look, buddy, either you talk to me right now and tell me what's going on, or I'm going to tell your father about what _really_ happened to his '32 Futura in yahren two at the Academy . . ." Starbuck ranted over the comm, the anxiety in his voice detectable. "I can hear you breathing. You _must _be alive. You'd frackin' bloody well better be . . ." A deep breath. "Still alive! _Apollo!_ _Talk to me_!"

Apollo licked parched lips. There was a burning pain down his right leg that made him fleetingly wonder if it had been ripped off. Determinedly he looked down, assessing the damage and more importantly the number of legs. _One . . . two . . ._ Good news, considering. He drew a deep breath before finally grunting through clenched teeth. "Could . . . use a little . . ."

_Crackkkkk __. . .!_

His guts jumped into his throat as he plummeted downward. His body jerked as he abruptly recoiled, bounced roughly, and then finally swayed gently in the wind. The lulling motion should have been comforting, instead, it put him in mind of a dead man swaying on the gallows. Slowly, painfully, he looked up. His rigging had snagged another branch. He let out a rasping breath, finally able to draw one, feeling as though he was all of a sudden living on borrowed time.

"Apollo! Are you there?" Starbuck's voice was breathless. He was on the run.

" Yeah . . . " A branch above him creaked again. "Don't take too long . . ."


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

_It was a long way up . . . _

The thermal imagery showed Apollo dangling helplessly, roughly eight metrons above the ground. His rigging and chute were tangled above him. It was too far to release the harness from the rigging and just drop to the ground without injury. Conversely, it was also too far to fly up there without a Viper.

"How bad?" Starbuck called up while dropping his pack. He could feel the sweat pouring off him after his frenzied race through the underbrush while tracking Apollo's signal. His friend had come down between two enormous trees. They each had to be over five hundred yahrens old from the girth of the trunks. Lords, but he hoped he didn't have to climb up there . . .

Just then, a branch cracked. Apollo dropped a couple more metrons until he jerked to a stop with a loud groan.

"Apollo?!" No answer. Just crackle on the circuit. "Apoll . . ."

"I'm okay. I . . . I don't think anything's broken . . ." Apollo replied a little hoarsely. It was plain he was hurting.

"Except every branch you took out above you," Starbuck replied lightly, assessing the debris on the forest floor and then above him.

"How far up am I?"

"Too far. You'd break your neck."

"Thought so," he replied. Then, "Tell me you're not going to try climbing up here . . . I still remember you assuring me that the only climbing _you_ like to do is into a Viper or onto . . . onto a barstool."

"I'd get Crawlon Man to do it, but apparently, his senses aren't tingling . . ." Starbuck returned, although Apollo was right. He wasn't _exactly_ afraid of heights, he just didn't like the idea of plunging to his death . . . And yes, there _was_ a difference. However, there didn't seem to be a lot of other choices, speaking of plunging to one's death.

"If I released _one_ side of my harness . . ." Apollo suggested.

"You'd probably slam into the tree trunk on your other side." Starbuck paused, picturing just that. "Did I ask you if you hit your head, by the way?"

"_My_ head is fine," Apollo returned emphatically. Then he shot back, "What happened to that eternal Starbuck optimism?"

"A day in the Brig. That's what happened," Starbuck retorted, not bothering to mention that wondering if one's best friend was going to survive the next few centons had a habit of dampening the most fervent optimism. Suddenly, something dripped onto his shoulder. He bit his lip as another drip followed it microns later. Reluctantly, he pulled off a glove and touched the wetness. He rubbed the stickiness between his fingers. Instinctively, he knew what it was, even with the helmet on. _Blood_. He swallowed down his apprehension, keeping his tone light as he started rummaging through his pack. "Ring any bells?"

"Sets off a few klaxons, actually," Apollo rejoined after a moment. "I'm trying my best to put it behind me . . .but I can't get the sound out of my brain of your voice asking me, '_What's the worst thing that could happen_?'"

Starbuck couldn't help but smirk at that. A quick comeback meant Apollo was holding his own. "I'm sure it could have been worse. The colonel's imagination is limited by the regulations, after all." He stood up and adjusted the magnification on his visor, trying to get a better view. The foliage was obstructing the way. "Are there any good sized branches up there nearby?"

A momentary pause and a rustle from above. "Yeah. Just to my right. Why? What are you thinking?" He sounded worried.

"I could fire a line up to it with the grappling gun. Then you could grab the line when you swing that way, if you release _just_ your left buckle. You could rappel down . . ."

Apollo groaned. "Oh, you've been dying to try that thing out since you packed it. Looks like something I got in a cereal box as a kid." He cleared a voice that was rough. "Listen, if _I_ can't see you without the thermal imaging, then _you_ can't see the branch to loop it around. Besides, unless it's secured properly, it might not hold my weight, Starbuck."

"Yeah? Well I told you to watch your mushie intake, buddy," he returned dryly, pulling equipment from his pack as he thought about it. Even injured, Apollo was typically pragmatic. "Do _you_ have any ideas?"

"I have an idea that I'd like to get down from here . . ." came the immediate reply.

"Smart astrum," Starbuck returned, shaking his head as he tried to pick out a route up the tree. He was definitely out of options. "Then I guess I'll have to climb up and secure the line myself so we can get you down." He looked upward. "Where are you bleeding from, and how bad is it? Give it to me straight, Apollo." He realized he was holding his breath, awaiting the answer.

There was a momentary pause as Apollo either assessed his injuries, or decided to come clean about them. "My right leg is torn up . . . I think it's superficial though."

Starbuck blew out a breath of relief as he stashed his pack under some ground cover. If it was minor, he could patch Apollo up, and they could possibly get back on schedule. Apollo would push himself to the limits, absolutely despising the idea of being a liability to _any_ mission. Still, playing medic was right up there with climbing trees on Starbuck's list of skills he was rumoured to be qualified for, but would rather avoid. Inserting the usual bravado into his tone of voice, he called up, "Keep an eye out for Cylons. I'm coming up."

"I'll just hang out here then . . ." Apollo replied deadpan, before adding, "Be careful."

The rumble of thunder punctuated his remark.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

Another gust of wind swung Apollo to the side as a flash of lightening lit up the night sky through a hole in the canopy. Probably the one he'd created. By now the shock had worn off, and his battered body was feeling the effects, intermittently wracked with the shakes. His right leg was throbbing and burning from where some branch had torn through his camouflage fatigues into his flesh. However, he couldn't let it stop him from completing the mission. His leg _had_ to be fit enough to get him through this. It _had _to! Go on a mission, you _finish _the mission.

He would accept nothing less.

Not far away, he could hear Starbuck's steady progress up the tree. Murmured curses marked his passageway as the other man drew closer and closer. Meanwhile, Apollo tried to tune his senses—both real and mechanically optimised—to the forest below them and act as a sentry, just in case of a Cylon patrol. Detection would be akin to death. But capture and interrogation would come first. The Cylons were finicky about that.

So far, all he'd spotted was some wildlife. Four-footed beasts, and something that resembled a bird, though it had flitted past too quickly to make anything of it. If he hadn't been in so much pain, suspended metrons above the ground and likely to fall to his death at any moment, he might have actually enjoyed the rare sounds and sights of nature in the magnificence of the wilderness. After all, hiking and climbing just to get away from it all was something he _used_ to do for pleasure.

He could detect Starbuck's slightly laboured breathing, the warrior was so close. His friend had wasted no time getting up there, climbing with a reckless urgency that betrayed his deliberately casual tone. Apollo craned his neck again to see Starbuck beginning to shimmy out along the thick branch he had been aiming for. He held his breath as the warrior moved slowly but surely towards him, finally straddling the branch and slipping a length of rope from over his head and shoulder.

"Starbuck, are you secure?" He didn't look it as he looped the line around the branch.

"In what?" he replied. "My last mental fitness exam said I was well-adjusted, with no serious problems. Of course, I rigged it . . ."

"To the tree!"

"Oh, right. No, not yet."

"If you fall . . ."

"I'm _not_ going to fall."

"_I_ wasn't going to miss the meadow," Apollo reminded him.

"Point taken." With that, Starbuck secured a belay carabiner on his harness to the rope. "What happened, anyhow?"

He almost hated to admit it. "Some kind of bird flew into my chute."

"Turbulence, downdrafts and lightening . . . and you're telling me you were taken out by a _bird_?" He sounded amused as he continued to manipulate the equipment.

"It was a _big_ bird . . ." Apollo rationalized. Actually, it _was_ kind of funny. He'd be sure to laugh uproariously once he was down on terra firma.

"Must have been." Starbuck sat there quietly a moment, drawing a deep breath. "No doubt working for the Cylons. How's the leg?"

"Sore." He rested a hand on his left release buckle, preparing to swing towards the rope that was only a couple metrons away. He felt slightly light headed, but was sure he could do this. And the sooner, the better. "Are you ready?"

"Wait a centon. I'm coming down there."

"I can do it. I'm okay," Apollo told him. Every extra micron he waited was too long.

"Uh huh."

But Starbuck was already lowering himself into position. Microns later he was swinging alongside, even as a gust of wind hit and the branches started creaking in protest again.

"That leg doesn't look too good, buddy," Starbuck said as he adjusted his position.

"Probably looks worse than it is. Especially with the optical enhancer," Apollo returned. "Are we going to do this, or not?"

"Come to Starbuck . . ." he quipped, holding out an arm dramatically. "Three, two, one . . ."

Apollo hit the release, holding his breath as he abruptly swung towards his friend. He reached towards Starbuck's harness, even as his friend clutched at his. Apollo gasped with pain when they connected, his injured leg colliding with Starbuck. He was unprepared for how it took his breath away, and he clutched at the warrior feebly for a moment, his fingers almost losing their grip on the other's harness.

"I've got ya."

Apollo groaned, as he willed his rising nausea to quell. Throwing up in a full-face helmet was something he'd rather avoid. Apparently, the leg was worse than he thought. He steadied his ragged breathing, vaguely aware that his harness was now attached to Starbuck's, and in tandem they were slowly abseiling towards the ground. Starbuck was using the trunk of the tree, just within reach of his feet, to steady them.

"You okay?"

"Just great . . ." he rasped, again grabbing tightly hold of Starbuck's harness, as though he could somehow hold sway over the descent. It was slightly unsettling that someone else was totally in control right now . . . even if it was his best friend. And, of course, it didn't help not being able to see Starbuck's face. With the helmet on, he looked more Cylon than Human. Truthfully, control was something Apollo didn't surrender willingly under most circumstances, if he could possibly avoid it. Command was in his nature.

As if somebody on high—with a warped sense of humour—was reading his mind, abruptly they heard the familiar drone that drove fear into a Colonial Warrior's heart and tylinium into his spine . . . and made a guy wish he wasn't swinging metrons over the ground, face to face with another warrior, at a clear disadvantage and about as far off being in control as he could possibly get. His helmet began _pinging _an alarm, and he refocused. _Enemy detected,_ it flashed in his eye. _Enemy detected._

Apollo reached for his weapon, determined to even the playing field.


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

Starbuck locked off the belay device, holding tightly to the rope as he heard the Cylon patrol drawing closer. Yeah, it didn't matter how many times he heard that droning sound, it still caused his heart rate to quicken and made his mouth dry as dust. His first instinct was to draw his weapon, as Apollo had, but in this instance it was imperative they remain undetected. Besides, hewas clinging to a rope, supporting both of them, and knew better than to let go with his brake hand. Strangely, dangling like a slowly moving target well above the Cylons' optical sensor range had just become an advantage. However slight.

Quickly and smoothly, he began to pull up the slack from beneath them.

"_What_ . . .?" Apollo murmured quietly, then hesitated, before nodding emphatically.

Pulling up the line would essentially erase them from view. Unless the centurions too noticed the debris on the ground from Apollo's descent. Unless they stumbled onto Starbuck's pack hidden in the underbrush. Unless they looked up.

Okay, so the plan wasn't perfect.

Starbuck coiled the rope over a shoulder and then waited anxiously. The patrol was almost upon them. The droning was louder and with the night vision he could see the lead centurion cutting a path through the vegetation with its bulk, occasionally using its sabre to decapitate any offending branches. It struck him that the methodical mutilation and destruction with the weapon was symbolic of the Cylon Alliance's unwavering advance on the Colonies, and all organic life in general. An unstoppable drive to kill, and kill, and kill.

Which made him again want to shoot them, despite the mission.

It went against the grain of a Viper pilot, this stealth approach. Dangling there quietly, being acutely aware of even the sound of his own breathing as the Cylon patrol of five centurions passed by through the foliage, his goal was to be undetectable, invisible. To let them pass by. It was so drastically different from engaging and destroying the enemy in space. His every nerve was alive, every sense was acutely tuned in. He felt as though he would explode from the tension, or scream. It required incredible patience and self-control, which weren't exactly his strong points.

Or so numerous officers had pointed out to him since he had first set foot in the Academy what seemed like a lifetime ago.

One Cylon veered from the path, just enough to send it directly below them. Starbuck held his breath even as his thermal imaging traced the direct line of one more drop of Apollo's blood as it fell, coming to land on the Cylon's armour. The sound shouldn't have even been audible, but it rang through his imagination with the clarity of a Red Alert. He was sure his heart stopped beating as he waited that long, tortuous, inevitable moment . . .

For the Cylon to look up.


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7

Apollo was pulling his trigger before the Cylon even had a chance to fully raise its weapon. An explosion and a flash on his screen confirmed he'd hit his target, even as he was drawing a bead on the next one. He felt himself sway slightly towards the tree and corrected his aim, not knowing what Starbuck was up to. Another flash meant another dead Cylon. All the same, the two of them were far too vulnerable hanging there mid-air.

"Colonial-Warriors." The leading Cylon pointed towards them. "Take-one-alive."

"Just _one_? " Apollo muttered, not having the greatest confidence that they would be discerning about _how_ alive their prisoner would be.

"I don't like those odds," Starbuck rejoined. He drew his knees up towards his chest, until his feet were flat against the tree trunk, and his body lateral in the air. "Hang on, buddy. I wanna try something."

"_Wha_ . . .?" Apollo gasped, urgently trying to aim his weapon at one of the other three centurions, as they simultaneously pointed their pulse rifles at him. Then abruptly Starbuck pushed off the tree, releasing the belay device, and they were skyrocketing through the air, swinging in an increasingly wide arc. It didn't escape him that a Cylon volley had narrowly missed them.

"Frack!" Apollo exclaimed, his final shot also going wide as his night vision showed the foliage flying by. He knew that sooner or later they would run out of rope, and then they'd hit the ground. Hard.

_THUD!_

He gasped as his leg exploded with agony when he hit the ground. The pain paralysed him for a brief moment before he could take stock of their situation. They wouldn't be given any points for grace, landing flat on their backs in a tangle of arms and legs, joined by their harnesses. The foliage came alive as a bevy of birds burst from their disturbed nocturnal nests, fleeing in all directions. It was complete chaos, and the perfect cover! Apollo gritted his teeth, sucking in a deep breath to gather his resolve and unload his pack, as Starbuck simultaneously released the carabiner that attached their harnesses. Rolling towards his friend, Apollo grabbed Starbuck's arm and raised a restraining hand, well aware of the other's tendency to jump the gun occasionally. At this point the Cylons weren't sure of their location, and if the warriors regrouped and attacked together, they would have the advantage.

"Don't shoot until you see the reds of their eyes," Starbuck quipped grimly and quietly as the last of the birds cleared the area and a few feathers drifted down from above them. Something furry scampered across his gun arm. He flung it away into the leaves.

Apollo nodded as they both froze. They listened acutely to the sounds of the enemy and watched the thermal imagery through their face shields, showing the remaining centurions congregated about five metrons away.

"They-have-gone-to-ground-in-the-underbrush. Sweep-the-area."

"By-your-command."

Apollo moved his leg forward, gritting his teeth. Stubbornly, he ignored the serpentine path of sweat beneath his helmet that was determined to distract him. He had to be ready to attack the enemy with Starbuck. He tensed as they drew closer. He touched Starbuck's shoulder, holding up one finger. His friend nodded, his laser in his hand, waiting.

One Cylon began slicing through the underbrush with the sabre on the end of its pulse rifle. The others quickly followed suit, tearing up the foliage. It was strategy that had proven successful for flushing out any living creature, including Colonial Warriors.

Two fingers.

Realistically, he knew that Starbuck would have the better chance at eliminating two of them. It was simply going to take Apollo longer to get into position with a leg that was already screaming abuse at him. He signalled Starbuck, hoping his friend picked up on the military sign language that they had both been taught in the first yahren of their Academy training. Starbuck could take the two on the right, he'd take the one on the left.

Starbuck signalled back at him . . . and then made an obscene gesture towards the Cylons. He was more than ready.

Three fingers . . .


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8

On Apollo's signal, Starbuck bolted upright, barely pausing to sight the Cylon furthest to the right before he fired. As luck would have it, the centurion moved right into his line-of-sight at that moment, and he hit it, a flash on his screen confirming its destruction.

A handy piece of electronic felgercarb, to be sure.

More from instinct than reason, he dropped back to the ground, rolling further to the right as pulses blazed through the night, both Cylon and Colonial. He ignored the one that blasted through his previous position, preferring not to dwell on it. The alarming thing about Cylons of the centurion class was that they tended to soldier onward through anything, not particularly concerned about their own safety, as they proceeded with their objective of wiping out the opposition, or securing a prisoner.

At any cost.

Not surprisingly, he could hear the final centurion advancing on them, and he glanced over to see Apollo also prone on the ground. Unlike Cylons, they had a concerted interest in remaining alive, and _not_ just to complete the mission, although that's not what the handbook said. Apollo signalled him again and he forced himself to concentrate on the hand motions, even more clearly defined by the night vision as the tiny sensors in their gloves relayed wavelons that were received and translated in his visor, all part of the new satellite system. Then he grinned, as he realized what Apollo was up to.

After all, Cylons were as dumb as a storage container of circuit boards.

Nah. Dumber.

He drew a steadying breath, feeling a strange calm sweep over him. The calm overcame the twisting guts and tylinium butterflies doing back flips in his stomach, while firing their pulsars. He watched Apollo lob a stone in the other direction. Heard the resulting noise that was supposed to draw the Cylon's attention. Then he lurched back up, sighting the last Cylon standing.

But instead of being turned the other way, the Cylon was now sighting _him_.

"Surrender-Human!"

"Frack!" he shouted as he squeezed his trigger and simultaneously leapt out of the way, as death stared him in the eye.


	9. Chapter 9

Part 9

"_Frack!_" could only be bad news.

Apollo forced himself back up to one knee as he saw Starbuck lurching away to his right, and a crossfire of laser volleys darting across his vision. The Cylon was still standing, Starbuck's shot only winging it. Apollo aimed and fired, before the centurion had a chance to focus on him. He breathed a sigh of relief as the enemy dropped in a heap. Then Apollo turned towards his friend.

"Starbuck!" There was no movement from where the warrior had landed.

The answering voice was breathless as he started rustling in the underbrush. "Am I alive or dead?"

Apollo smiled slightly. "Alive." Then abruptly, he realized the possible connotation of the remark, "Are you okay?"

"Me? Just great. Nothing stirs the blood like being shot at by Cylons that can outthink you." He stood up from where he lay. "What's with that? They're _supposed_ to be predictable. _That_ wasn't predictable, buddy."

"I'll report him to the Imperious Leader for having original thoughts," Apollo replied wryly, sitting down heavily on a fallen tree trunk, and stretching his injured leg out in front of him. Now that his adrenaline had ebbed, he was feeling the effects of using his injured leg. His mouth began watering and he felt hot and sweaty as nausea washed over him.

"You do that," Starbuck replied, slowly making his way over to the Cylon. He gave it a nudge with his boot, apparently making sure it was _really_ deactivated. Then he passed it by, going to retrieve his pack. "How's the leg?"

"You tell me," Apollo replied after a moment. It was throbbing. "Hurts like Hades . . ."

"Guess I'll be playing med tech . . ." Starbuck ventured, dropping down beside him with a med kit. He drew an audible breath as he looked at the leg, then gasped, "_Frack_ . . ."

"Starbuck, you're not exactly filling me with confidence here," Apollo told him. "Haven't you learned any bedside manners from . . ."

"Well. . . it's, uh . . . all green . . . and . . ." he let out a breath, " . . . pulpy looking." He cleared his throat.

"That's the night vision, Bucko," Apollo returned, wincing as the warrior tore back the fabric of his pants to get a better look at the wound.

"I _know_ that, but this close up it still looks . . ." Starbuck broke off, shaking his head. "Gross."

"Yeah," Apollo had to agree.

The gash had to be thirty centimetrons long and two to three centimetrons across at the widest point, extending internally from near the top of Apollo's right thigh to just above his knee. Congealed blood covered the tissue which eviscerated through the jagged tear. Blood had seeped into his uniform pants, and down into his boot. The mere thought that bits of him were popping out beyond where they should be made the bile rise in his throat. The greenish tone that the night vision cast didn't help, giving it the appearance of rotting flesh. Apollo jerked off his helmet, gulping in deep breaths of fresh air to steady his roiling stomach. The cold wind felt good on his face. The fresh air was medicinal. The rain that managed to spatter through the forest canopy was revitalizing.

Or so he kept telling his stomach.

"You gonna puke?" Starbuck asked tentatively.

"I'm . . . _thinking_ about it," Apollo returned, glancing at his friend, only to find he had also removed his helmet. He could barely make out the warrior's features in the darkness. "You?"

"Not this kid . . ." Starbuck returned, sitting back on his haunches and drawing a couple deep breaths, despite his claim. Not for the first time during their friendship, his actions contradicted his words. "Better get this over with . . ." He began fishing around in his pack.

Apollo grabbed his wrist. "What are you gonna do?"

"You don't trust me?"

"I trust you." Apollo assured him. And he did. Starbuck was one of the most talented Colonial Warriors he'd ever met, most of his "skills" coming second nature. However, his abilities as a medic were as questionable as Apollo's own. "I just want to know before you . . . _do_ it."

Starbuck smiled. "Ah. I see." He opened the med kit. "Oops. Sorry. I just opened the med kit."

"Funny . . ." Apollo returned grimly, hearing the amusement in the other's tone. "You're a regular riot. Ever consider going into show business?"

"I prefer to put myself in more of a managerial role." He paused for effect. "Now, I'm gonna put my helmet back on so I can see. . . then again, maybe it would be better not to. At least for me."

"_Starbuck_ . . ." Apollo growled.

The other warrior pulled on his helmet, adjusting it. "First I'll scan your leg to make sure it's not broken. Then I'm going to use the hypo to freeze the surrounding area. At least it should deaden the pain. Then I'll inject an antibiotic to ward off any infection."

Apollo nodded, relieved that their witty repartee was over for the moment. He just wasn't up to it right now. The scan only took a centon and, as he suspected, was negative for a fracture. A moment later, a barely detectable jab preceded a pleasant numbing sensation. The procedure was repeated at intervals until the throbbing had ceased, and soon his anterior thigh felt like a frigid piece of dead flesh.

"Do you feel that?"

"What?" Apollo asked, suddenly realizing his eyes were tightly shut. Watching somebody work on your tortured flesh wasn't exactly enthralling stuff.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Starbuck returned with a satisfied nod. "Alright, I'm going to clean it." He didn't sound too happy about it.

"You're doing a good job," Apollo encouraged him, knowing that few warriors had the stomach for field dressings. Hades Hole, he'd _hated_ that part of their training.

"Yeah, right." The tone was doubtful.

Apollo risked a glance. The gore was quickly washed away with the usual irrigation and field disinfectant, but he could barely see the wound in the dark.

"_Frack_ . . ."

"Would you _stop_ saying that!" Apollo returned, his guts reflexively twisting. "_What_?"

"You have part of the _tree _sticking out of your leg!" Starbuck replied in a tone of voice just shy of utter horror. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, shaking his head. "Maybe we should comm? Air-evac you out of here?"

"Can't you just remove it?" Apollo asked.

"I'm _not_ a medic!" Starbuck leaned closer to inspect the site of the injury more minutely. "I'm not a logger, either."

"Starbuck, you know what's on the line here. If we don't complete the mission, we'll be . . ."

"I _know_ . . ." his friend replied, pulling off his helmet again, and raking a hand through his hair. "Failure is not an option, as the commander likes to say. A lot."

The motion was familiar, and hopefully comforting. "Feel better now?" Apollo teased.

"Funny," Starbuck returned, running his fingers through his hair once again as if he was rubbing some kind of talisman. "I _really_ don't want to do this."

"I'm equally unexcited at the prospect, if that makes you feel any better."

"Oddly enough, no." He blew out a short breath. "If I pull that piece of wood out of there, and I damage a major blood vessel . . ."

Apollo looked again. His friend was right. There was a major artery in there somewhere, and it was a miracle the hunk of wood hadn't ripped it to shreds. "We deal with it _if_ it happens. We apply pressure and comm for an evac. If we had to, you could use your laser to cauterise it."

"Oh, lucky me! Do you really want to spend your last centons with me leaning on your groin? Or firing on it?" Starbuck asked him dubiously.

"You have a real gift for proposing the most disturbing mental images, Starbuck . . ."

"Just trying to prepare you for the worst, Apollo . . ."

"What happened to your optimistic . . .?"

"A day in the brig . . ."

"Yeah, right. I remember," he sighed. "You _have_ to do it. There's no other choice."

"Actually, I can think of several, but none of them that would work to our mutual benefit."

"My point exactly," Apollo replied. He reached forward, grabbing his friend's forearm. He was close enough to be able to look him in the eye for the first time since they had been aboard the shuttle. "Look, it won't be long before the Cylon Base realizes its patrol is missing. They'll send out reinforcements to investigate. Every centon counts here, buddy. We have to move out." He waited a moment as Starbuck let out a breath, uncertainty still on his features, and reluctance in every aspect of his mien. "This is a two man mission. Doing it yourself would be suicide." Starbuck slowly nodded. He realized that. "Now _do_ it."

"Just remember, this was _your_ idea . . ."


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10

"_Pliers_?" Apollo choked out as Starbuck pulled them out of his pack.

"It's either that or my teeth . . ." Starbuck quipped, once again adjusting the definition on his optical enhancer while fortifying his courage.

"Let me think about it . . ." Apollo returned dryly, his knuckles white as they gripped his thigh above the wound.

Starbuck nodded as he grabbed his weapon, adjusting the laser to its lowest setting, turning it into a makeshift sterilisation tool for the pliers. He blasted the metal jaws for a solid centon before he was satisfied. Then he placed his weapon down beside him, just in case he did need to use it for cauterisation.

This was it.

"Ready?" Starbuck asked.

"And if I said 'no'?" Apollo returned.

"Then I would have to conclude that shock and loss of blood have affected your judgement, and I would go ahead anyway." There was no going back now. "I'm pretty sure it's in the manual somewhere. Retreat is failure. Failure is death. Death is final. Finality is endless . . . Something like that, anyhow."

"The _manual_?" Despite his state, Apollo managed to dredge up a snort for old times sake. "You mean that barely thumbed book you tucked between your issues of Buxom Beauties and Triad Pro?"

"Oh. Is that where it is?" Starbuck tapped his temple dramatically. "_Hmm_. Are you the one who swiped Miss Septimus?"

"Starbuck! Get it over with!"

"Ah, _now_ he's ready . . ."

Starbuck grasped the jagged piece of wood with the pliers, not daring to look at Apollo. His friend seemed to be holding his breath in expectation, which actually seemed like a darned good idea. It took but a micron to pull the wood out of there, and to Starbuck's pleasant surprise, there was no life-draining spurt of blood signifying a haemorrhage. Blood slowly pooled in the wound, and he irrigated it again just to make sure it was all right.

"Well?" Apollo asked.

"Looks okay," Starbuck returned, feeling at least half of his tension ebb with his words. "But there are still some small fragments lodged in there, buddy." He knew what would happen if they stayed and festered, but _he _certainly wasn't equipped or qualified to remove them. However, if he and Apollo could manage to get in and out of the Base without too many more complications, then Apollo would be back in the Life Station long before any serious infection could set in.

If it was any other two Colonial Warriors, he wouldn't bet on it, but in this case . . .

"Derma-Seal?" Apollo asked.

"Yeah," Starbuck nodded, reaching back into the med kit. Spraying the liquid adhesive bandage on to the wound would stop the bleeding, and temporarily seal it. A few centons later, the glutinous resin was already dry, and he was wrapping a sterile field bandage tightly in place. "Done."

Apollo nodded, gingerly bending his knee, and pulling his leg up towards him. "Nice job."

"I couldn't have done it without you," Starbuck returned, putting a supporting arm around the warrior to help him up.

"I guess not . . ." Apollo grunted wryly as he stood. He weaved slightly getting his balance. "Feels like half my leg is missing."

"Well, when it comes back it's going to hurt like Hades Hole on a hangover." Starbuck checked his chrono, then glanced back at his pack. His bulky, overfilled, stuffed-to-the-limits pack. Apollo had one just as big. It simply wouldn't work. "If we have any chance at pulling this off, we need to travel light and fast, Apollo."

"And?"

"One pack. On me. Essentials only." After all, up until now whenever they went on a mission, all they had needed were their instincts, lasers, scanners . . . and good looks.

"Essentials, huh." Apollo smiled slightly as he considered Starbuck. "What exactly do you consider essential?"

"Solenite. Lots and lots of solenite."


	11. Chapter 11

Part 11

They had made good time moving cross-country, and had reached the Base within a centar. It was so well concealed from ground level, that if they hadn't had definitive intelligence pinpointing the location, they might have walked right past it. Apollo adjusted the magnification on his helmet, scanning the inconspicuous terrain, looking for telltale signs, while trying to ignore the encroaching pain that was wrapping its way around his leg once again. The freezing was wearing off. He might need an analgesic shot before this was over, but that could leave him unable to walk, or even function. Maybe . . .

"See anything?" he asked Starbuck. The other was studying the Cylon base intently, in a variety of wavelons, looking for a way in.

"Not yet, but they don't exactly tip toe. It should be relatively easy to see where their foot patrols leave from," he replied, dropping his pack with an audible sigh of relief. He pulled off his helmet, wiping his sweaty face with the arm of his jacket before reaching for a couple energy drinks in the pack. He handed one of the slim foil packets to his friend. "Here. It's Berry Express, your favourite."

"Thanks," Apollo replied, taking it but continuing to scan the area. Starbuck had hefted the heavy backpack over terrain that he had mentioned more than once wasn't really suited to one injured Colonial Warrior and his pack equine. He deserved to slake his thirst. "Inconvenient, having to take off the helmet to drink or eat."

"Don't put it in the evaluation, or they'll come up with some hideous alternative," Starbuck rejoined.

Apollo smiled, shifting his weight off his right leg. "Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some kind of hypo administered energy boost . . . concentrated javeine, maybe."

"Stimulants."

"Yeah." Starbuck finished the drink, sighing before he pulled back on his helmet. "Only after about five hundred inter-departmental memos, then more memos. Then they'll form a committee to select a panel to oversee the project . . . We'll have our statues up in the Hall of Heroes before the first prototype is ready."

"Statues, huh? Will they immortalize us because of suggesting stims, or for something a little more . . . heroic?"

"Well, probably for suggesting stims, but by then we will have saved Humanity at least four or five times over, so it really won't matter all that much . . ." Starbuck returned. "Your turn."

Apollo followed suit. He shouldn't have been surprised to find his hair plastered to his head with sweat, but he was. Still, the energy drink tasted like the nectar of the Gods as he gulped it down in a few swallows. He paused, as Starbuck began adjusting settings on his helmet again. "See something?"

"Yeah." Starbuck instinctively leaned forward. "It's camouflaged, but it sure_ looks_ like a shuttle."

"Launching?" asked Apollo. "I don't hear anything . . ."

"No. And, are you ready for this? It's one of ours."

"_What_?" Apollo replied, pulling his helmet back on. "Give me the coordinates." He zoomed in as Starbuck relayed the position of the Colonial transport. "Those are definitely Colonial markings. What in Hades Hole would a Colonial shuttle be doing _outside_ a Cylon Base . . ." And then it hit him. "_Ohhhhh_ . . ."

Starbuck chuckled quietly beside him. "Yeah. Exactly." He leaned down and grabbed the backpack. "I'm guessing if we go check her out, we might just pick up the trail of those Cylons. _This-way-to-the-Base_," he mimicked the mechanical drone.

"I'm guessing you're right," Apollo agreed.


	12. Chapter 12

Part 12

Apollo was breathing hard again by the time they descended a steep hill taking them down towards the shuttle. Starbuck could easily detect the limp that indicated the freezing had worn off, and his friend's pain was returning in all its fury. Typically though, Apollo was doing his best to stoically ignore it.

"Hold up a centon," Starbuck told him, pausing behind an immense boulder, and undoing the straps that secured his multi mega-ton pack. It slipped to the ground, and once again his back and shoulders thanked him for his mercy.

Apollo turned back reluctantly, leaning heavily against the boulder, and then as if surrendering to the pain and the realization that it was time to do something about it, he slowly slid downward. His hands again wrapped around his leg, tightly clenching it as he sat on the ground. "Frackin' leg . . ." he spit out.

"Yeah . . ." Starbuck dug through his pack, pulling out the med kit once again. He held it up.

"Just freeze me again. I don't want any narcotics on board . . ." Apollo waved a hand before him almost defensively.

"I'll have to cut through the bandage . . ." Starbuck explained.

"Just inject through it, it will be quicker . . ."

"It won't work . . ."

"How do you know?" Apollo asked.

"Because I tried it once and caught several layers of Hades Hole for it." The warrior shrugged as he started slicing through the bandage, pausing when Apollo jerked in discomfort. "_Against_ the skin, Starbuck," Starbuck mimicked in a nasally voice, trying to distract his friend. "It's a sonic penetration unit, _not_ a battering ram . . ."

"_Ah_ . . ." Apollo returned, half groan, part reply. He looked as though he was about to launch himself towards the nearest moon without a Viper as Starbuck started injecting freezing once again at intervals along the wound.

"Believe me, buddy. If there's an easier or quicker way of doing almost anything, I've thought of it," Starbuck told him. The wound was looking okay. At least for now.

"Pragmatism 101," Apollo hissed, still breathing hard.

"Med Tech Zhi called it Advanced Lazy Astrum," Starbuck replied with a reminiscent grin. "He awarded me an honorary degree in it."

"I thought you _majored_ in Advanced Lazy Astrum . . ." Apollo returned lightly, his body relaxing slightly.

"Well, since it came so naturally to me . . ." Starbuck rejoined as he started applying a fresh field dressing. "Why do you think I decided to be a pilot? Get to sit on my lazy astrum in the cockpit, instead of hauling backpacks as big as you around the countryside, dodging Cylons." He looked at his friend's leg. "And trees. I can't imagine being assigned to ground missions like this one as a regular gig. No thanks."

"Think of it as a personal challenge." This time Apollo sounded more like his old self. The freezing was working again. "Rise to the occasion."

"I'd rather do it in a Viper. I can rise higher with less effort." Starbuck finished the wrap and stood up. He reached down a hand. "Ready?"

Apollo nodded, taking the hand up. "Yeah." Still, he tottered a bit as he regained his balance. He took a few halting steps, trying out the leg. "There's a happy medium _somewhere_ where the pain isn't slowing me down, but I can _almost_ feel my leg again."

"Yeah, that's called 'just the right amount of narcotics'. You might want to try it." Starbuck held up the hypo again, selecting the narcotic setting. "Comfortable, but still able to function. How about it?"

"I don't _like_ drugs." Apollo shook his head vehemently. "They affect my judgment."

"When have you _ever_ let drugs affect your judgment?" Starbuck countered as he replaced the hypo and med kit, then hefted the pack onto his back with Apollo's help. He grunted under the weight.

"Just before we were picked up by Security," Apollo reminded him. "You know . . . before the Brig."

"Alcohol is a different classification of drug."

"Self-induced stupidity, is what alcohol is."

Starbuck chuckled. "Only if you can't handle it. Besides . . . it was fun."

Apollo sniffed. "Yeah, probably _too_ much fun . . ." He motioned down the hill. "Okay, I'm alright now. Let's get moving."


	13. Chapter 13

Part 13

Sure enough, they picked up a well-trampled trail near the Colonial shuttle, which led to a hidden and secure entrance to the Cylon Base. Hidden, in the sense that it hadn't been obvious to them to begin with, and secure, in that a solid tylinium hatch, at least two metrons thick, sealed off the Base from would-be invaders. Apollo perched atop a rock, looking down on the entrance about four metrons below, wondering just how they could penetrate the interior without being detected. Behind him, he could hear Starbuck scaling the rocks, his notoriously heavy pack creating a new level of difficulty for the warrior. He glanced back over the outcrop of rock at his friend who had almost reached the top. Abruptly, the sound of crumbling rock, and falling debris preceded a whispered expletive from just below him.

"_Frack_ . . ."

Apollo shot out a hand, grabbing a hold of Starbuck's forearm as his friend clutched at an outcrop desperately while his feet scrambled for a solid piece of rock to hold his considerable weight. "I've got ya . . ." Apollo grunted. "Starbuck?"

"_Really_?" Starbuck rasped, as more rock crumbled beneath him.

Using pure adrenaline, Apollo jerked Starbuck upward, reaching for his harness and pulling on that too. He groaned with the exertion, letting his breath escape through clenched teeth as he gained centimetron by centrimetron on the slipping man. Finally, Starbuck found solid purchase for his feet, and came to a blessed stop. The only audible noise was the sound of their laboured breathing, and a few bits of rock falling to the forest floor.

"Thanks . . . I needed that," Starbuck grunted, slowly climbing the rest of the way up.

Apollo kept a hand on his friend's harness, still pulling upward, just in case the rock gave away again. "Apparently, there's a weight restriction on this particular hunk of rock," he whispered.

"Well, I didn't see it posted," Starbuck griped. "The colonel slipped up in our briefing, it seems."

"_Shh_!"

A massive, heavy clanging sound filled the air as below them the hatch opened. Both warriors pulled their weapons, and then froze, waiting, listening to the sound of the enormous motors powering the door. Apollo couldn't help but wonder if somehow they had been detected. A scanner they had missed? Perimeter guards? Maybe the patrol they took out had been missed, failing to report in? Something they had overlooked, despite meticulous recon?. Finally, the first Cylon appeared from within the stronghold.

Apollo held his breath . . .


	14. Chapter 14

Part 14

A Cylon foot patrol of six centurions filed out slowly in single file, heading through the narrow pass that hid the entrance of the base from unsuspecting eyes. Not once did they look up, or even to the side. Like all Cylons of their class, they maintained vision dead ahead. Evidently, the warriors' position was secure for now, even if this group of centurions was going to investigate the whereabouts of the missing patrol. It was a steep drop from where the men were perched to the ground below. The problem being that they would have to wait for the last Cylon to disappear from sight before they could start to make their way down, and by then the hatch would be undoubtedly closing . . .

Abruptly, Apollo's fingers were in his face signing _let's go_!

A milli-centon later, Apollo was grabbing the rope that Starbuck had tucked into a pocket on the pack, and was securing it to an outcrop. Quietly he lowered the rope over the rock face, testing his weight on it before giving Starbuck a nod and beginning to repel down. Thankfully, the clunky centurions were creating their usual din and didn't seem to be noticing the Colonial Warrior, at least for now.

Microns later, Apollo had hit the ground safely. Getting his balance, he pulled his weapon, checking for any stray Cylons. Astoundingly, the Cylon patrol was still disappearing into the distance, and the hatch into the base was still open. He waved at Starbuck, urging him downward as he undid the rope from his harness.

Now the thing about Apollo is that the guy took enthusiasm to a new and scarier level than anyone anywhere ever thought possible. Most people had told Starbuck a time or two that he was rash, however, he was generally only rash in a _fun_ and _adventurous_ way, not in a _jump into a ravine full of Cylons_ way . . . at least until he met Apollo.

As he had countless times before, he now found himself following his friend, feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the anticipation sharpening his senses. It was more effective than any nutrient bar . . . and didn't weigh anything _or_ need to be stored in his pack. He quickly looped the rope through his carabiner, securing it so he could belay his descent if necessary. A micron later he was once again horizontal in the air, his feet following a path down the side of the cliff as the rope passed swiftly through his hands. He startled, coming to a stop and glancing downward as he suddenly landed amidst brambles sticking out from the cliff side. Multiple prickles penetrated his pants, and he sucked in a breath of frustration that he hadn't been looking ahead. A quick jerk to free himself, and he repelled over the few bushes, moments later landing quietly on the ground.

Apollo nodded at him to hurry as Starbuck undid the rope from the carabiner. Then his friend grabbed a hold of it, tossing it up where it caught in the bramble bushes, out of sight of any but the most observant Cylon.

At that exact moment, the heavy mechanical grinding of the hatch's motor starting up again impelled them towards the closing blast door. They exchanged a quick glance then started running for the massive opening that would give them access to the Base. Starbuck pulled his weapon, unsure what would be meeting them on the other side of the enormous barrier. They were going in blind, and had to be prepared for anything.


	15. Chapter 15

Part 15

As Apollo darted through the opening of the two-metron thick hatch a few paces ahead of his friend, he idly noticed that it was a sliding mechanism, with three large cylindrical tylinium bars that bored into the correlating guide holes in the rock wall, instead of something that swung open and shut, as was typical of Cylon construction. When he cleared it, the time to consider the engineering feat abruptly ended as he saw the two centurions standing at the control panel for the hatch. Almost as one, they began to look up . . .

There was little else to do. Apollo took aim and fired, dropping the first one before it even had a chance to see him. Cursing the lack of any cover, he dove for the ground, rolling and coming up on one knee, drawing a bead as the flash of a laser volley flew over his shoulder. He feinted left and then lurched right, his leg reminding him of what an idiot he was for doing so, as pain lanced through his thigh despite the freezing.

Then he noticed a strange electronic humming had filled the air, but he couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from, or when it had started. He was sure he hadn't noticed it when he had first entered the base . . . maybe. The sound frequency pitched sharply.

Starbuck yelped from behind him.

There was no time to look, never mind figure out what was happening, and Apollo fired off another shot from where he half lay on the ground. The remaining Cylon dodged behind the control panel, taking aim again with his pulse blast rifle. The laser narrowly missed him, the bolt exploding behind him as it struck something, and for an instant he was blind as the signal in his visor was interrupted by the energy wavelon. He startled, instantaneously taking stock, wondering if he'd been hit, even as he was rolling away, trying to minimize himself as a target and at the same time keep a hold of his weapon.

"Apollo! I need some help here!"

Starbuck's voice was urgent. Still in the game, Apollo blinked as shapes, forms and data readouts came back online. Once again he deked, before twisting his body around and firing on the Cylon. A milli-centon later his visor was registering the kill, as the centurion slumped over the control panel. He sighed with relief, even as he drew a ragged breath and turned to see what had happened to Starbuck. He gasped in horror when he saw what had happened.

Desperately, Apollo lunged for the control panel.


	16. Chapter 16

Part 16

It had just gone through Starbuck's mind that he was _never_ going to live it down that Apollo could run faster with an injured leg then he could with two perfectly good ones, when the force field suddenly surrounded him. And he hit it hard, yelling as voltons of energy surged through him before knocking him flat on his astrum.

As if that wasn't bad enough, when the fireworks that were shooting across his vision finally stopped, and his visor cleared microns later, from flat on his back he realized that the massive hatch was slowly closing in on him . . . and he was trapped in a two-metron wide force field, with absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Terror paralysed him for a micron, reaching up and grabbing him by the throat as he scampered back on his astrum from the encroaching door. He could hear laser fire being exchanged, but only caught a glimpse of Apollo rolling along the ground, and then out of sight. Here Starbuck was with a pack full of solenite, and it was utterly useless, unless he opted to blow himself up instead of waiting to be crushed by a fifty kiloton door. Then again, when the solenite was compressed against the rock wall, it would undoubtedly ignite, making a hole in the wall big enough to fly a Battlestar through. For a moment, Starbuck even contemplated firing his laser . . . but immediately his imagination superimposed an image of the trapped laser volley ricocheting off the force field until it found a nice, receptive, soft Human to absorb it.

_Not a good idea._

"Apollo! I need some help here!" he yelled, loudly enough that even the colonel should be able to hear him. Why in Hades hole was there even a force field there? Did the Cylons really think they needed extra security in addition to the hatch? Then again, who had just been trapped like a fly in a crawlon's web? He looked around urgently, trying to find something he could wedge between the door and the wall that could resist the massive, crushing vice that was narrowing in on him by the micron.

There was nothing.

"_Apollo_!"

With shaking hands, Starbuck undid the clasp that secured the backpack, letting it settle to the ground as he forced his still quivering legs to support his weight, and stood up. His whole body tingled from the force field, and he could feel random spasms shoot through him. He pulled the heavy pack along with him, and he soon found himself reflexively pressing up against the wall, absolutely stunned that this could really be happening. Would it be better to shove the pack away from him. . . or would it even matter how far away from exploding solenite he was in a two-metron confined space?

_Well, you always wanted to go out with a bang, Bucko . . ._

He sucked in his breath as the metal door began to press against him. He could hear the contents of his pack crunching under the pressure, and closed his eyes, just waiting for the inevitable explosion. A slow and persistent pressure thrust him into the rock, grinding against him mercilessly. It frackin' hurt!

"_Apollo!_" he rasped.


	17. Chapter 17

Part 17

As he pushed the inert Cylon aside, Apollo realized that the controls were nothing like he had ever seen before. Lights flashed in obscure patterns that could only mean something to a mechanical drone, and he glared at the one on the ground, briefly resenting its mute refusal to give him any assistance. Moving on, he studied the control panel urgently, trying to make sense of how it worked. He needed to stop the closing hatch, and only hoped there was some kind of mechanism to do so. His hands hovered uncertainly over the alien panel as Starbuck gasped desperately for help only metrons away. He had to do _something_, and he had to do it now!

_Eenon meenon minon mo . . . _

He hit the largest switch hoping desperately that Cylons respected scale as much as Humans. The grinding of the hatch's motor abruptly ceased. In a micron, he had dashed towards the door, stopping himself just shy of the force field, feeling his skin prickling in reaction to the energy wavelons.

"Starbuck! Are you okay?"

His friend's breath was coming in short gasps from where he was now wedged against the stone, and his eyes were panic stricken. Starbuck took a moment before he nodded briefly, then licked his lips as he looked at Apollo beseechingly.

"It ain't gonna matter much . . . if you can't get me out of here . . ." he grunted.

"I'll get you out," Apollo promised, surveying the situation. "Where's the pack?" Notorious for its instability in its rawest form, the Solenite charges were unpredictable at best right now.

Starbuck swallowed visibly before replying. "There's a slight alcove in the rock . . . very slight. It's on the other side of me." He shook his head ever so slightly, his anxiety clear. "I heard the metal twisting under pressure, Apollo. I don't know . . ."

Apollo nodded soberly. "Don't worry . . ." He smiled bravely. "We've been in tighter spots."

"Speak for . . . yourself . . ." Starbuck returned pushing futilely against the massive door that held him captive.

"I thought you worked best under pressure . . ." Apollo retorted, glancing back towards the control panel and the passage that led into the base for any signs of approaching Cylons. As much as they were supposed to be penetrating the Base quietly, in hindsight, exchanging laser fire and blowing away sentries probably wasn't the best way to go about it. Had the Cylons had an opportunity to report their presence yet? They certainly had had the time to activate the force field that caught Starbuck. He had to free Starbuck immediately if they were to have any chance of evading any Cylons responding to an alert. Apollo glanced upward. A large system of ducts and pipes were visible, no doubt to decrease the humidity and to conduct energy. _Maybe . . ._

"As much as I'm enjoying us shooting the breeze, buddy . . ." Starbuck interrupted his train of thought, "I think we're running out of time."

"I know," Apollo replied soberly. "But the controls _aren't_ in Colonial Standard, Starbuck."

Starbuck paused slightly before a calm resignation settled on his features. "So you don't know how to open the hatch again _or_ turn off the force field." One hand clenched into a fist, betraying his true feelings. "Thoughtless of those Cylons. Well, I'm all for the tried and true method of pushing buttons and throwing switches until it does what you want."

"Yeah, but . . ." Apollo's guts churned and his stomach flip-flopped. He'd just received permission to risk crushing his best friend into a Colonial Mushie with an encore of blowing them both to the deepest levels of Hades hole.

"Hey, what's the worst thing that could happen?" Starbuck said flippantly.

"There you go again . . ." Apollo replied, once again taken back to the errant adventure that had landed them into this mess to begin with. It was so typically Starbuck. _Full turbos ahead and damn the mega-pulsars!_ Well, if Starbuck could rise to the occasion, so could he. He nodded curtly, holding his friend's gaze for a moment longer before returning to the control panel. The next flip of a switch could decide both their fates. He took a deep breath, preparing for the worst, but praying for the best. Then he hit the switch that for the moment gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling . . . hoping it wasn't a deceptive Cylon spy.


	18. Chapter 18

Part 18

The sound of the powerful motor restarting, which controlled the massive hatch, sent a stabbing bolt of iciness into Starbuck's heart and soul. The next microns would either free him, or squash him slowly and tortuously into a bloody, pulpy mass, provided the explosion of the solonite charges left anything for the hatch _to _squash.. He reminded himself optimistically that he might just have a few centimetrons to play with, because while he was wedged tightly against the wall, he was reasonably sure he hadn't broken either skin or bone . . . as yet. Besides, his helmet and visor were still intact as the electronic felgercarb flashing across his vision reminded him.

Then all too soon, the hatch came to life and the crushing pressure started anew.

"_Wrong way!!_" Starbuck yelled before closing his eyes, silently and fervently praying to God and every Lord of Kobol that might be on duty just now for one more chance. He felt like a tube of dental cleanser that was being squeezed for its last dab, as his last breath whooshed out of his lungs. Terror and horror battled for supremacy as his body reached its limits of malleability. He would have screamed if he had the breath to do it . . .

The crushing pressure stopped, even as the massive motor still hummed.

Starbuck painfully drew a tiny gasp of air into his starving lungs, as a loud, cracking noise penetrated his mind. For a moment he wondered if this was his first splintering bone that would precede the snapping and mashing of the others. His stomach heaved at the thought, and he willed his rising gorge to quell. Daring to open his eyes, he abruptly realized from the absolute blackness that his helmet had been crushed and rendered useless . . . which actually explained a lot about why his head felt as though it was going to implode!

Then the gallmonging motor roared to life again, striking uncertainty and fear into every fibre of his fragile mortal existence as he tortuously awaited an outcome. He almost sobbed in relief when the pressure abruptly receded and the massive tylinium door began to open. Instinctively, he kept a hand against the metal, reassuring himself it was still drawing further away from his bruised body, and that Apollo had obviously figured out the controls. Gradually, and a little shakily, he peeled himself off the rock behind him.

And pitched forward, dropping to the ground like a stone.


	19. Chapter 19

Part 19

As soon as the force field was down, Apollo sprinted towards the fallen Starbuck as fast as his injured leg could carry him. There was a crack running down two sides of the younger warrior's helmet, but Apollo could hear him gulping in breaths and letting escape the occasional groan as his shaking hands pulled frantically at his visor. He was alive. Apollo let out a breath of relief when it dawned on him that in addition his friend's standard fatigues _weren't_ saturated with a deadly crimson, as he'd half expected. He'd take Starbuck's cry of "wrong way" with him to his grave, and forever curse turning that mong-raking dial to the left instead of the right. With half an eye on the potentially volatile backpack of solenite only a metron away, he squatted down, and proceeded to hook his hands under Starbuck's arms. His friend jumped in surprise, letting loose a yell, one hand moving reflexively towards his holster. His vision and hearing were obviously impaired by the damaged helmet.

"Easy, buddy. It's me. I've got to get you away from that solenite," Apollo explained, nodding instinctively when Starbuck relaxed in his grasp. Quickly, he dragged his friend into the Base and away from the direct line of the blast of the battered solenite charges. Truthfully, he knew that if it suddenly blew, they would undoubtedly be caught in the blast, but he still intended to cut the risk to both of them, even if it seemed pointless. Gently, he set the other down, running his eyes over his friend, looking for injuries. Of course, the biomonitor was in the pack, so he'd have to do it the old-fashioned way.

"What hurts?" Apollo asked, taking a micron to reset the force field. Admittedly he didn't know how effective it would be if the solenite blew, but even a Cylon force field was better than nothing.

Starbuck mumbled something incoherent in reply. He was shaking like a leaf. Probably in shock. Methodically, Apollo checked for injuries, finally noticing Starbuck was breathing fast. Maybe _too_ fast. Apollo wasn't sure when exactly hyperventilation became official, but Starbuck seemed to be striving towards it.

"Slow down," Apollo told him, putting a hand on his chest. "You're breathing like a rabid daggit."

"Is that a . . . a comment on my breath?" Starbuck gasped, as he pulled at his helmet again with both hands. "Help me get it off . . . it's crushing my fracking skull."

"It usually helps if you undo it . . ." Apollo brushed aside the shaking fingers, helping undo the helmet and removing it. The thermal imaging in his visor didn't display any evidence of blood, and again he found himself relaxing slightly. "Better?"

"Yeah." Starbuck raked his hands through his hair, his breathing slowing noticeably. Then he picked up his helmet, turning it over in his hands, observing the damage of the crushing pressure, and probably considering what _could_ have happened. Abruptly, he struck out, kicking one of the Cylons hard before shaking his head and sucking in a breath through his teeth. "Astrum-wipe . . ." he muttered darkly at the centurion. It deigned to answer.

Entrusted to hit a couple switches and turn the dial the right way, instead he'd almost killed his best friend. Apollo's guts churned as he pulled his own helmet off. Lords of Kobol, _nothing_ could be worth living with that kind of guilt for all of eternity. He tried to remember the inspiring reasons he was here . . . like fighting for the survival of Humanity. _Oh yeah_. But it all seemed like military claptrap in the light of what had almost happened. "Sorry . . ." he breathed. An inadequate word, at best.

Starbuck glanced at him, taking a moment to compose himself. In microns, a contemplative mien and a wry smile replaced the previous anxiety. It was a remarkable transformation, and for the life of him, Apollo wished he could pull it off as smoothly. Was it playing endless card games that made Starbuck a master of assumed insouciance? Or something else?

"Don't be an idiot." He reached out and slapped Apollo on the shoulder. "I'm alive. There's not even a scratch on me. We're still in the game. Nothing else matters." Starbuck shrugged nonchalantly.

Apollo pursed his lips, appreciating the effort, even if it was ninety percent bravado and the rest pure felgercarb. "Do you really believe that? I thought _winning_ was what mattered."

"I'll discuss the subtler points of that with you over a tankard of grog when all this is over. _And_ we've won." Then Starbuck smiled. "You're buying, by the way."

"The next thing you'll be telling me is that this was all a carefully orchestrated ploy to get me to buy you a drink."

Starbuck grinned. "For that, you can throw in a fumarello. One of the _good _ones, not those cheap weeds that you erroneously believe come from the same curing house as my _Vita_'s."

"You're on," Apollo nodded, standing and putting out a hand to his friend. "Can you stand?"

Starbuck gripped his hand, accepting the sudden pull upward. He winced slightly, but otherwise seemed okay. "How much time do you think we have?"

"Not much." Apollo glanced at his chrono. Again, he looked upward, pondering a possible plan. "You know, if we can manage to get that grappling gun that you're so fond of . . ."

"Well, as long as we're picking through the pack, can we risk salvaging the charges that weren't damaged, as well as the rest of our stuff? Maybe leave the others here for the Cylons . . . as a parting gift?"

Apollo drew a deep breath, shaking his head at Starbuck. "If the casings are compromised, Starbuck . . . "

Starbuck nodded soberly. "I know. _Kaboom_." He waved a hand towards the hatch. "But so far they haven't blown, and my old munitions instructor once told me that these things are made to withstand the most incompetent of warriors . . ." he grinned wryly at Apollo's look of dismay, "And so here we are . . ."

"You're out of your mind," Apollo told him. _Only_ Starbuck . . .

"Out of my _helmet_ actually. Lords, but it's good to see through my own two eyes again," Starbuck retorted, striding towards the hatch. "Can you turn off the force field?"

"Starbuck, _I'm_ in command. If anybody's going to pick through a pack of battered solenite charges, it's me."

Starbuck shrugged, almost as if he'd expected the opposition. "Have it your way, buddy."


	20. Chapter 20

Part 20

Starbuck chewed on an unlit fumarello as he watched Apollo ever so slowly and tediously pull items out of the backpack one excruciating millimetron at a time. A wrong move or a sudden jerk could blow the solenite, the pack, the compound _and _the mission. And of course, it could really spoil things for them, too. Admittedly, maybe his friend was the better man for this job that required nerves of tylinium and the patience of Lord Sagan himself. Nerves, Starbuck had, but with his body battered and turning enchanting shades of yellow and purple following his close encounter with the Cylon hatch, his patience _was_ wearing a bit thin.

"How's it look?" he asked Apollo, while finishing hard-wiring into the control panel the latest and greatest piece of electronic felgercarb that Colonial Research and Development had come up with, and they were supposed to test on this mission if the opportunity arose. While the other warrior was playing with solenite, Starbuck was manning the control panel. An access hatch that remained open long after the patrol had left would eventually be investigated, and inevitably the Cylons would check in to find out why.

"Centurion-report," the disembodied voice demanded from the comm. Fortunately, these Cylons were a little on the lazy side.

"Here goes nothing," Starbuck murmured quietly as he pulled his fumarello from between his lips, turning on the vocal modifier prototype and activating the Cylon comm suite. Apollo turned sharply, waiting to see the outcome as Starbuck spoke into the mic. "By-your-command. Patrol-has-left-as-ordered." It was eerie hearing the Cylon drone, knowing the words were his own. Actually, between the helmet and this new vocal modifier, he was beginning to feel more Cylon than Human. _Fight fire with fire . . ._

"Core-Command-detects-access-hatch-remains-open. Explain."

"Negative-Core-Command. The-hatch-is-closed," Starbuck replied, smiling slightly. That would scramble their diodes. He glanced at Apollo who was now gingerly lifting the pack from beside the massive open door, and moving it slowly into the compound.

"Our-data-does-not-corroborate."

"Stand-by," Starbuck stalled, shutting off the comm. Apollo nodded, and a moment later he was joining his friend.

"Most of the charges are intact," Apollo informed him. "It was the long-range communicator that was mutilated beyond repair."

"_Most_ of them?"

"There are a couple that are slightly bent from the pressure, but I couldn't detect any solenite leaks."

"Just as well. I didn't exactly want to raid their munitions dump for more explosives wondering if our task force was in the process of rigging it to blow." Instinctively, he pulled his communicator off his belt, checking for the signals that would verify the other two teams had completed their missions. So far they hadn't received those transmissions. He shook his head at Apollo.

Apollo motioned towards the control panel. _"Now what?"_

Starbuck grinned, reaching forward to activate the comm again. "Core-Command, physical-assessment-of-the-hatch- corroborates-the-data-previously-reported. The-hatch-is-closed." The flashing lights of the vocal modifier peaked and fell in tone with his voice.

"Our-data-does-not-corroborate." A pause. "Stand-by. Running-diagnostic."

"By-your-command," Starbuck signed off. It wasn't that difficult. A succinct phraseology with a liberal dappling of "By-your- command's." Anybody could be a centurion if he put forth a little effort.

Apollo clapped Starbuck on the shoulder briefly in approval before digging through the pack and pulling out the grappling gun. He pointed upward where the massive air ducts ran overhead. "What do you think?"

Starbuck smiled at the brilliant simplicity of the plan. "I think you should stand back and let _me_ try it."

Apollo chuckled, shaking his head. "It was _my_ idea."

"Ah c'mon, buddy! You know I've been dying to test it!" Starbuck winced slightly. "Besides . . . it would ease my pain."

"I can't believe you're playing that card, Starbuck!" Apollo replied with a puff of breath. "What happened to 'There's not a scratch on me!'?"

Starbuck smiled, holding out his hand for the grappling gun. "It's a daggit eat daggit universe. I thought you would have realized that by now."

Apollo merely stared at him, his features still obscured by the helmet, his posture erect.

Starbuck sighed, dropping his hand. "Hey, I was raised in an orphanage, competing with a hundred other kids for the privilege to do _anything_ first. Generally stuff like the chow line and the turbo flush. Old habits die hard, I guess." His friend shuffled from foot to foot as he considered that. Rarely did Starbuck discuss his upbringing. "You go ahead." Starbuck shrugged. "After all, you're probably the better shot with the visor's attack sequence activated. And I'm still waiting for Cylon Central to check in to tell me their diagnostic is done, and the door is still reading as open anyhow." He clamped his fumarello between his teeth again and crossed his arms, leaning against the panel and affecting a bored stance. "I'd hate to be distracted by doing anything _fun_."

"Actually, I'm the better shot even _without_ the attack computer," Apollo returned with a teasing tone. He raised the grappling gun slightly, eying the largest duct above them, then hesitated as he studied his friend. "I'm actually feeling guilty about this. Are you manipulating me, Starbuck?"

"Not very effectively, apparently," Starbuck returned with a chuckle. "Obviously, I need more practice. Wanna go back and start this conversation over? I could try some new lines."

"One of these days I'm going to figure out exactly how that mind of yours works . . ." Apollo returned, lining up a shot.

"Join the endless line of women who have told me the same . . ." Starbuck rejoined, following his friend's line of sight as Apollo pulled the trigger.

The grappling hook penetrated the thick tylinium of one of the retaining bands holding a huge length of ducting in place with a resounding _thunk_. It was somewhat reassuring that their weight would be supported by tylinium, as opposed to the organic matter of a tree, as Apollo had pointed out in the forest.

"Nice shot," Starbuck told him. If they'd penetrated the duct by mistake, it would have introduced a whole new set of complications as it was detected by the Cylons. He glanced at his chrono, suddenly wondering why Core Command hadn't checked back in. The diagnostics should be concluded.

"This-is-Base-Commander-Surgut. Open-the-hatch," the comm demanded.

"By-your-command," Starbuck spoke into the comm, activating the controls that would open the hatch all the way. The huge motor came to life once again for a long, clamorous centon. "Hatch-is-open, Base-Commander."

"Close-it," the Cylon officer replied. "Once-completed, shut-down-system-and-reinitialise."

"By-your-command."

It was the natural progression in a "secure" environment, and the final procedure before sending out maintenance. If the diagnostic failed, turn the damn thing off and on, and try again. How many times had Starbuck done the same thing while dealing with uncooperative equipment in a similar environment?

"What do you think? Should we leave a solenite charge behind to explode when they come to find out why these two aren't responding?" Starbuck asked as the hatch closed and he cut power.

Apollo hesitated a moment. "As tempting as that is, we're trying to go undetected as long as possible. An exploding tunnel just _might_ give us away." His tone was light.

"So would finding dead Cylons."

"We're going to get rid of the evidence." Apollo pointed upward. "I'll rig a pulley when I get to the ducts. We'll drag up the Cylons and dump them there." He jerked a thumb at the overhead machinery. "It'll look like they've abandoned their post."

"Well, admittedly it's a slightly more _subtle_ solution. Call me crazy, but I can't resist blowing up Cylons. It's in my nature," Starbuck rejoined.

"Yeah, I noticed that about you," Apollo returned. "Don't get me wrong. Generally, I find it to be one of your more endearing character traits. Besides . . ." he motioned back towards the hatch, "a back door might come in handy if we need another way out."

"Hmm, good point. Especially with that Colonial shuttle so temptingly nearby . . ." Starbuck grinned. It would be the perfect ride out of there if they were running late . . . which they were.

"Don't even _think_ about it . . ." Apollo warned him, his abrupt tension obvious in his body language.

"It would be _beautiful_!" Starbuck replied with a chuckle. "Perfect irony."

"Stick to the plan, Starbuck," his friend replied in a no-nonsense tone.

"Hey, doesn't the Colonial Service encourage independent thinking?"

Apollo sniffed, appearing to think that over for a moment before clapping him on the shoulder. "It does at that. 'Finish the mission successfully, preferably getting out alive.' I believe those were our orders." Then he grabbed the rope that dangled from the grappling spear far above. "Secure the rope, would ya?"

"Aye, sir," Starbuck returned with a sloppy salute as he reinitialised the system again. A moment later the Base Commander informed him that all was again operational and signed off. It was a simple matter of removing the vocal modifier again, and then Starbuck pulled down hard on the rope, reducing the slack as Apollo continued the challenging vertical climb up the rope, favouring his right leg noticeably. A few centons later, he had disappeared from view, pulling up the rope to rig it to a pulley, before once again sending it down to pull up their pack. The network of dehumidification and power ducts would be the perfect way to get around unseen. A beautiful chance to exploit a definite flaw in the Cylon defence.

Starbuck began retrieving the downed centurions, dragging them into position to hoist them out of sight. Lords, these suckers were _heavy_! Personally, he'd rather just shove them between hatch and wall, activating the massive door to crush them into oblivion. However, he could see that if that somehow prevented the hatch from closing properly, they'd be right back where they started with a patrol of Cylons on their way to investigate.

Abruptly, a blast of laser fire filled the air startling him. He couldn't be any more vulnerable, out in the open, dragging along a Cylon. He dropped the centurion, instinctively reaching for his weapon.

"Do not-move-Human!"


	21. Chapter 21

Part 21

The sudden sound of firing Cylon pulse rifles just about made Apollo lose his balance atop the air duct. Caught up in securing the backpack of solenite and preparing to lower the rope down to haul up the destroyed centurions, he was caught unawares. He abruptly pulled his weapon, but hesitated to fire, as he took in the scene below.

Starbuck had been mid-draw, and turning to exchange fire with the Cylons, but fortunately a quick assessment on his friend's part at the patrol of six centurions made him reassess the situation. Apollo held his breath, knowing that if Starbuck let off even one shot, he'd be dead in a micron as six Cylon weapons sited him.

"Lay-down-your-weapon!" the lead centurion ordered as they fanned out on approach, beginning to surround the warrior. Within four microns, they had the entire passage blocked.

Starbuck's laser was hanging loosely in his grip, his hands partially raised as if in indecision. _C'mon buddy, drop it._ A captured warrior could be freed. A dead warrior wasn't coming back.

"There-is-no-escape-Human! Lay-down-your-weapon-now-or-we-will-open-fire," the lead Cylon declared.

"All of you?" Starbuck asked, his voice steady considering the situation. His released his Colonial laser, and it clattered to the surface. "Isn't that overkill . . . pardon the pun."

"Silence!" the centurion ordered. He turned and spoke to the soldier nearest to him. "Search-the-area!"

"By-your-command."

Apollo drew a deep breath, weighing the possibilities as the centurions spread out looking for evidence. If he fired on the Cylons and revealed his position, not only would the mission be a bust, but Starbuck would likely end up dead as a result. The risk was too great, the potential benefits meagre at best.

Below, a centurion patted down Starbuck, removing his scanner and communicator. The mechanized soldier glanced briefly at both before handing them to his squad leader. A moment later, another had returned with Starbuck's damaged helmet which the commanding Cylon examined closely

"Are-you-alone?" the centurion demanded of Starbuck.

The warrior glanced at him letting long microns pass before finally replying, "No, I'm surrounded by a half dozen tin-heads, Chrome Dome. How did you guys get this duty out here in the middle of nowhere? Did you end up with reconditioned parts? Too out-of-date for assignment to a Base Star?"

Apollo closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. _Starbuck _. . . Name, rank and serial number were supposed to be the standard reply to any questions posed by the enemy. To his credit though, Starbuck's eyes remained trained on the Cylons. He didn't even glance upwards. He was probably expecting Apollo would be making his way out of there, onward to the hangar and the completion of their mission while he stalled for time.

"Silence!"

"That's the thing about you guys. You're always contradicting yourselves. Tell me, Metal Mouth, how am I supposed to remain silent and answer your questions at the same time?"

_That's Starbuck! If you can't confound them with logic, baffle them with bovine-mong!_

The centurion suddenly advanced on the warrior, jabbing him with something which Apollo didn't recognize that _looked_ like a baton. Abruptly, Starbuck yelped, dropping to his knees and then curling into a ball and slumping to the ground. Fury engulfed Apollo, and his trigger finger tightened reflexively, even as he realized from the visor's tracking system that Starbuck was still alive, and apparently uninjured. Evidently, the Cylons had created a weapon to coerce Humans into submission. Or warriors like Starbuck into taking them more seriously.

"Things-will-go-better-for-you-if-you-cooperate."

"You mean . . . it could get worse?"

The lead centurion jabbed him again, and Starbuck jerked violently, grunting aloud. "You-will-cooperate, or-you-will- be-punished."

"Wh-what . . . the frack _is_ that?" the warrior sputtered, as he was pulled to his feet by two centurions. He clearly needed their support.

"Laser-baton," the centurion deigned to answer. "Take-him-to-the-Brig. I-will-question-him-there."

"By-your-command."

"Prepare-the-brain-probe."

"By-your-command."

"Tell-Base-Commander-Kaluga-that-we-have-found-a-Human, and-to-begin-searches-of-all-facilities."

"By-your-command."

As they half pulled, half dragged Starbuck along, Apollo glanced at his communicator, seeing the signal that indicated the munitions dump had been penetrated and was almost ready to blow. He glanced at his chrono, knowing that his first priority should be getting on with the mission. It would only be a matter of time before the team assigned to the Control Centre was also ready. But knowing that Starbuck would soon be interrogated, probably using this laser-baton as a crude torture device, had him truly torn as to his next course of action.

If their positions were reversed and Apollo had anything to say about it, he'd demand that Starbuck would carry out the mission, and hopefully attempt a rescue if time allowed. Meanwhile, Apollo would use all his own training to try to escape and steadfastly refuse to reveal any information to the Cylons about the unfolding mission, as a Colonial air strike prepared to amass, determined to decimate this pivotal Base. They were warriors after all, and the Cylons were the enemy. The job came first, and sacrifice was not only an expectation, but a foregone conclusion.

But all that rhetoric didn't make his difficult decision any easier as Starbuck was marched out of there surrounded by Cylons.


	22. Chapter 22

Part 22

Starbuck tried to shake off the support of the centurions, bent on getting to the Brig under his own steam, but they had no intention of letting him go. Part of him still couldn't believe they had used the new fangled weapon on him, but the parts that were still tingling in reaction to the voltons that had shot through him were reconciling him to the notion that maybe he should stick to the regulation responses in the future, and take this whole exercise a little more seriously.

_Do ya think, Bucko?_

In what seemed like mere microns, as he pondered what exactly he was in for during the inevitable interrogation and brain probing, they arrived at the Brig. He'd been trained for this, he reminded himself. Resisting Cylon torture and interrogation methods. An insistent Cylon hand dropped on his shoulder as the hatch opened to the cellblock, then he was shoved forward roughly. He sucked in a breath as his stomach flip flopped nervously. Admittedly, a little of his cockiness had worn off with his rising anxiety, and he managed to bite off the retort that was battling to leap off his tongue and get him in a whole lot more trouble.

If a guy in his situation could be in any _more_ trouble than he already was.

The Cylon that had admitted them then opened the sole cell door, giving Starbuck the idea that either they didn't get much company in these parts, or that they didn't keep their prisoners alive all that long. Quickly, he looked around memorizing the layout and the fact that there was only one guard whose actual post was _outside_ the Brig . . . which logically meant they had to be already guarding _somebody_. It didn't bode well for the mission.

Unless there was _always _a guard. Hmm . . . Maybe . . .

Once again he was shoved forward, and he stumbled as he reacted in surprise to the current occupant of the cell. She was taller than the average woman, with raven hair that cascaded in waves down her shoulders. Her vivid blue eyes looked him over openly and curiously, appearing to measure him up. The black jumpsuit she wore left little to the imagination, accenting a curvaceous figure that would be more appropriately suited for the centrefold of _Buxom Beauties_ or _Colonial Curves _than for any Brig, Cylon or otherwise. Surprisingly, he didn't know her. She wasn't part of the team . . . and by her relaxed posture as she lounged on the only bunk, his instincts were telling him she was no Colonial Warrior.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" she murmured as the cell door slid closed behind him. Like a felix, almost lazily, yet gracefully, she rose from the bunk, coming over to meet him. Her eyes raked over him, and her fine eyebrows arched slightly as she completed a circle around him before coming to a stop. "Who are you?"

"Starbuck," he replied, looking at her just as frankly. She was almost as tall as he, with almond shaped eyes and full lips framed by a face—as the old nautical saying went—that could launch a thousand ships . . . or more likely sink them. He smiled and said a silent thanks to the Goddess of Luck that his capture had taken this unexpected twist.

"Those are fatigues that you're wearing." She reached forward, fingering his jacket. "Oh yeah. I'd bet my ship and everything on it that you're a Colonial Warrior."

"Really?" he answered noncommittally. "What kind of ship?" Was she a smuggler, he wondered? Some sort of privateer, perhaps? Or just some hapless Human who had wandered too close to the Cylon base? Her Colonial Standard was perfect, and her accent was tantalisingly familiar, but he couldn't place it just now.

"Now what's a Colonial Warrior doing way out here?" she ignored his question.

"I could ask _you_ the same question . . ." he retorted.

"Not really," she replied with an enigmatic smile.

"Oh? And why not?"

"Because _I'm_ not a Colonial Warrior."

There was an impish smile on her face that both intrigued, and annoyed him. How in Hades Hole could one be so . . . nonplussed at being in a Cylon brig? "What's your name?"

Her head cocked a bit to one side as she regarded him for a moment. She seemed to consider whether or not to tell him, before finally nodding at him in a carefree attempt at courtesy. "Saraesa."

"_Saraesa_ . . ." he murmured. "That means 'beautiful breeze', doesn't it?"

She raised her eyebrows in surprise, then smiled a little mockingly, "Is that supposed to impress me?"

"It usually breaks the ice at parties," he replied with a smile.

"Oh, I see." She looked around the cell. "I must have misplaced the band."

He decided that he liked her flippancy, robust enough to match his own. Then, he heard the outer Brig door close as the centurions left the cellblock. "What are you doing in a Cylon Brig in this quadrant, Saraesa?"

"Waiting for a big, strong Colonial Warrior to come and help me escape," she purred, smiling lasciviously. Then she too looked through the translucent door to make sure there were no Cylons observing or listening before she grinned and pointed upward. Well out of reach for a single person, but just accessible for one boosting another, a ventilation duct invitingly awaited them. The grill covering it looked scratched and marred.

"What about the grill?" Starbuck asked.

In a heartbeat she reached behind the bunk, removing what was once a fork, before it had been used to stab and tear at a tylinium grill as the bearer took running leaps of faith to weaken its defences.

"You boost me up. I'll open the grill," she told him. It was the obvious solution, except . . .

Starbuck glanced upward. "Then you climb inside . . . and I get up there . . . _how_?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, which didn't exactly fill him with confidence. All the same, he didn't have much time before the Cylons started their interrogation, and he really wasn't looking forward to seeing how well he did at Advanced Torture Resistance.

"I'm stronger than I look, Warrior. If _you_ can jump high enough, _I'll_ pull you up," she informed him. She paused a moment when he sniffed sceptically. "Let's get a move on. I'm guessing those Cylons will be back to start tearing apart your brain before long. That should be motivation enough to do things _my_ way if you want the benefit of my considerable seniority here as a prisoner of the Cylons. By the way, did you get here under your own power, or as part of some infiltration team?"

"Infiltration team? Why would you think that?" he asked, unwilling to reveal anything just yet. For all he knew, she could be some kind of Cylon spy, bargaining for her own freedom by probing him for information. A mercenary? "I'm a scout. Part of geotechnical survey team, sent to map out this quadrant."

"Good try, but I don't think so." She chuckled. "It's the fatigues. They're definitely military, unless geologists have gone in for _Early Camo_ this season. And that's not a standard pilot's uniform, and the only other way a Colonial Warrior could end up here is if he was captured out on patrol," she informed him, again looking through the cell door. "You must be part of some mission. I'm guessing that my time is running out. I need to find my ship and get out of here. Let's move!" she demanded.

"You don't happen to have a slightly less bossy friend around here who's just as cute, do you?" he asked. "I think I picked the wrong cellblock."

"I see. Assertive women intimidate you," she suggested mockingly.

"I haven't met a woman yet that intimidated me," he smirked. She tensed in return, looking like a venomous serpent about to strike.

And drop dead gorgeous too.

"Boost me up," she ordered him again, pointing at the duct impatiently.

"I'll tell you what . . ." he smiled, nodding upwards. "I'll boost you up to pry off the grill . . . but then _you're _coming back down here to give _me_ a leg up to the duct . . . since you're stronger than you look." He smiled wryly. "At least I know that I can pull you up behind me." He took a step closer to her and added in warning, "If I even get the gist of an idea that you're going to try to climb into that duct ahead of me, I'll pull you right back down on your shapely astrum."

She frowned at him. "You want _me_ to boost _you_ up? I thought you Colonial Warriors were supposed to be gentlemen."

"It's preferable, but not mandatory." He waited a beat. "Well?"

"Fine," she said, hands on hips and looking up. Then she gazed at him coolly. "But keep your hands where they belong, Warrior Boy, and off of my 'shapely astrum'. Got me?"

"Oh, I've got ya, alright. A time and place for everything, sweetheart," he retorted, stepping toward the duct.


	23. Chapter 23

Part 23

The mission had taken on a new and pressing urgency since Starbuck's capture. As much as Apollo knew that his _first_ priority was to set the solenite charges in the Cylon hangar, a mental image of his friend being interrogated by the Cylons loomed in his subconscious, demanding he ignore the constant throbbing and the growing blood stain of his injured leg, and get on with his mission so that he could return to help Starbuck.

Sweat trickled down his back, and his breathing was laboured as he grunted under the weight of the backpack. His heart pounded in his chest, feeling as though it would burst through at any moment with the strain he was under. Why, by all the Lords, had they brought so much stuff anyhow?

_Because it's the regs, and you thought that maybe we might possibly need it, should the unlikely situation arise, _Starbuck's voice abruptly informed him as clearly as if he was there.

He was probably right.

With a self-derisive snort, Apollo stopped, shrugging off the heavy pack and opening it up. Between electronic felgercarb, solenite, detonators, and survival gear, there was still enough crap in there to keep a small platoon alive for a secton.

_And you're the one who convinced me to carry it all the way to the Base, oh wise and meticulous Squadron Leader_.

Unless Apollo was sure he was going to use it in the next centar, the superfluous gear was going. This time he was ruthless as he sorted through the pack. Idly, he wondered what Starbuck would say if he knew.

_Not that I'm one to say "I told you so", Apollo, but_ . . .

He could almost see Starbuck's easy grin, rimming a smouldering fumarello, as he ribbed him. Lords of Kobol, he hoped his friend was okay. What he wouldn't give to have Starbuck giving him the gears in person just now, instead of merely daydreaming about it.

Then it hit him, that he was spending altogether too much time with Starbuck's voice in his head. It could mean one of two things; Starbuck was mentally projecting his thoughts, or Apollo was losing it.

Oddly, he found himself preferring the latter.

He sat down heavily, pulling his helmet off. His hair was soaked, and plastered to his head. It occurred to him he was probably feverish, and that he should take something for it. Just like he should check his wound, and numb the leg once more with the hypospray.

_Really? Do ya think?_

"Oh, shut up," Apollo retorted quietly, not thinking of anything more witty as a comeback. You knew you were in trouble in a battle of wits when you resorted to 'shut up'. Starbuck would never let him forget it . . .

Oh right, Starbuck wasn't _actually_ here.

_And you won't be either if you don't buck up and get back in the game, buddy _. . .

Apollo grabbed the hypospray, wiping the sweat from his face as he selected the setting for another dose of antibiotic. He pressed it against his skin, closing his eyes as the _whoosh_ coincided with the faint sting of the drug delivery. More likely than not, it wasn't doing much good, so he selected some Acetelon to treat his fever.

_Good idea._ _Get some fluids into you too,_ _then at least you'll be thinking straight _. . .

"And _you'll_ get out of my head," Apollo retorted, grabbing a bottle of liquid nourishment and sucking it back.

_Hey, it's not like I like being here. It's way too neat and orderly for my tastes. I'm surrounded by righteousness and perfectionism, and this overwhelming desire to be all things to all people. If I don't get out of here soon, buddy, I'm gonna get all honourable or something _. . .

"Too late, Starbuck . . ." he smiled, shaking the image of his friend off as the drugs began to work. With a sigh, he then injected some more freezing into his thigh. The resulting numbing was a relief.

Apollo checked his communicator once again, seeing that the signal had come through that the Control Centre too was now ready to blow. The other two teams would be heading for their rendezvous points, having presumably completed their missions successfully. For a moment, he thought about contacting them, but if the Cylons detected his transmission, it would be like painting a big target on his back, and his compatriots'. No, he had to pull this off without putting anybody else at risk. This was his and Starbuck's assignment. Their responsibility. Their challenge.

A glance at his chrono told him he only had about ninety centons before the planted charges would go off, ready or not, and the air strike would begin. He stood up, pulling his helmet back on, and then swinging the considerably lighter pack onto his shoulders. There was no time to re-check his wound, or reinforce the bandage. He was only centons from the hangar now, and would soon be in position to start setting some charges, presuming he could get past the growing presence of centurions looking for him.

All he needed was a distraction . . .


	24. Chapter 24

Part 24

Starbuck felt a little guilty when Saraesa quietly grunted under his weight, as she grudgingly gave him a leg up to the ventilation duct she had managed to pry open on its hinges only centons before. Luckily, guilt was for him a transient emotion, meant more for the likes of his best friend, and hadn't wasted much of its time on Starbuck throughout the yahrens. He couldn't help but smile when he noticed . . . yeah, it had already passed.

In microns he had grabbed the top edge of the duct, pulling himself upward and quickly taking his weight off the slender young woman. Starbuck blew out a breath as he easily manoeuvred himself into the duct, and then turned over, lying prone to offer Saraesa a hand up.

"Come to Starbuck," he quipped with a grin. He beckoned to her with his fingers.

"And escape had looked so enticing until now," she replied wryly, taking one more look around the cell, before backing up a couple metrons and taking a running leap.

Their right hands connected solidly, and Starbuck pulled upward, capitalizing on her momentum. Her free hand gripped the shoulder of his jacket, and she scurried onward hand over hand, agile and impressively fit. She used him like a Human ladder, ultimately grabbing his belt and climbing over him. He couldn't help but smile as he felt every centimetron of her body as it squirmed over his in the close quarters.

_A fella could get used to this__ . . ._

"You're enjoying this, aren't you, Warrior?" she posed, before finally clearing his form and wriggling further into the duct.

"Sure beats a Cylon Brain Probe," he quipped, as he flipped over and turned himself around so he could move head first. "How long have you been here, anyhow?" he grunted when he reached back to secure the grill back into place, just about dislocating his shoulder in the process as he struggled to reach it. _There, that's got it._ It was loose, but at a glance, the Cylons wouldn't be able to tell. He hoped.

"A secton, I think. Hard to tell. They took my chrono away." She paused to look back at him. "A secton _too_ long for my tastes, by the way." Then she added briskly as she began to crawl forward, "Let's get going."

"Where exactly?" he asked, for the first time feeling a bit bad about giving her such a hard time, even though she had returned it in kind. Surviving a secton in a Cylon Brig was something most Humans wouldn't live long enough to brag about. If anything she deserved his respect, not his scepticism.

"For me, the hangar. If my ship is still in one piece, that's where it will be, Warrior," she called back.

The hangar worked for him. If he knew Apollo, come Hades or high water, that's where his squadron leader would be. Then he froze as he heard the sound of the outer cell block door opening. The Cylons had returned. "Go!" he hissed quietly, waving her ahead urgently.


	25. Chapter 25

Part 25

Providing a distraction proved to be more difficult than Apollo had at first thought. The most obvious course of action was to use a solenite charge to draw the Cylons' attention, however, blowing something up in the hangar or nearby would also announce his presence, ultimately bringing even more unwanted attention. He needed something more subtle . . .

The overhead ducts he was using as a passageway irritatingly took him over central areas of the hangar, leaving him exposed if he repelled directly down to ground level, but at least he could visualize everything as strategic diversionary ideas formed, and were systematically rejected. To top it all off, he couldn't get rid of the fuzzy feeling that was clouding his thoughts, probably indicating blood loss, or infection. Or both. Well, at least he wasn't hearing things any more. Then again, "subconscious Starbuck" might have an idea that hadn't yet occurred to him.

The blare of a klaxon suddenly propelled the Cylons into action, as they scattered to to their respective battle stations, in response to their commanding officer's orders. Instinctively, Apollo made his decision. He shrugged off the pack, grabbing the grappling gun from within, and loading it, while methodically connecting a line. He quickly pulled the backpack in place, and fired. Due to the constant din, he couldn't hear the firing mechanism or the grapple drive home as it connected with a tylinium crossbar in the upper superstructure. He sucked in a breath as he tightly gripped the rope and then took a running jump.

He couldn't help but let out a whoop of joy as exhilaration swept over him. It was like some kind of action scene from a favourite holovid as the hero swung through the Cylon hangar, while below him centurions scurried about in an oblivious frenzy. The Lords of Kobol were smiling down upon him, and his triumph at hitting the suspended metal walkway he'd been aiming for, more than overshadowed the pain of impact.

Well, _almost_.

Apollo let out a string of curses through clenched teeth as he slowly pulled himself over the rail, collapsing onto the deck. Forcing himself to ignore the agony in his leg, he pulled in the slack of the line, tying it off on the rail. He let out a frustrated breath as he considered this newest problem. If he fired his laser, he _might_ sever the rope, but more than likely he would just cause a ricochet effect, damaging something that would get noticed, and once again calling attention to himself. He had to hope that the distracted Cylons wouldn't look up and notice that anything was amiss as he infiltrated their hangar right above their unsuspecting metal heads. If he continued along this walkway, he could access the massive motors that opened the hangar door, and set timed charges that would permanently disable it.

Of course, he would give just about anything to know _why_ the klaxon was going off. The Cylons below seemed to be diverting resources within the Base. Two platoons were lined up, and within microns were funnelling out of the hangar. It couldn't be the fuel or ammo dumps; he would have heard them go up. Whatever it was, it couldn't be an outside attack, equally noisy, which led him to believe that either one of the other two teams had been discovered . . . or Starbuck had escaped.

And while the idea of the former caused him to cringe, he almost whooped again at the latter.


	26. Chapter 26

Part 26

The klaxon was blaring in Starbuck's head, making an already uncomfortable and dire situation even worse, as he scurried forward through the duct as fast as he could go on hands and knees, feeling more like a bilge rat than a Colonial Warrior. Luckily, Cylons weren't exactly known for their adroitness, so he couldn't quite imagine them boosting each other up to peak in the ventilation duct, even as they eliminated any other possibilities for an escape from the tiny cell. Fleetingly, a mental image popped into his head of dozens of centurions climbing down on hands and knees, forming a classic pyramid, as Base Commander Surgut climbed atop them. Just as quickly he pushed it back to that corner of his mind that he reserved for self-amusement on long-range patrols or during particularly long and painful briefings.

Abruptly, the klaxon stopped. The relative ensuing silence was deafening, until he heard the _thunk_ in the darkness, and Saraesa's cry of dismay.

"Festering fragments of fetid felgercarb!"

"What?"

"Dead end!"

"Huh?" he asked in disbelief.

"Are you hard of hearing, or just slow on the uptake?" she snapped in return. "I think it's a . . . a filter of some sort."

In retrospect, it was inevitable that they would reach a filtering system. Yeah, air, dust, moisture and pollutants—all very nasty to Cylon joints and circuits—could enter it just fine, but it was impassible to Humans. Yeah, they tended to be a bit on the big side for filters. Still . . . filters had to be replaced at some point.

"Look for an access hatch!" Starbuck called forward. "There has to be some kind of access to reach it for maintenance."

"I can't _see _anything!" Saraesa called back in frustration.

"Are you blind, or just lazy?" he retorted, as he moved up alongside her, cramming his body in next to hers, ignoring her grumbling objections. The hatch would have to be nearby the filter housing, since the unlucky centurions assigned to maintenance detail certainly wouldn't be crawling in to reach it. He ran his hands over the smooth surface of the duct, pausing when his fingers eventually found a ridge. "Ahh!" He followed the outline, and pushed against the centre of it.

It didn't budge.

"Nice job. You obviously have more extensive experience with contaminants than I do," Saraesa muttered.

"And the experience continues," he muttered. Then added, "Do you _ever_ shut up?" He pushing against the panel again to no avail. "Get out of the way. I need more room."

"Darlin', if it was up to me, I'd be far enough out of your way, that you wouldn't see me for spacedust," Saresa drawled as she manoeuvred further back into the duct.

"Hmm . . . now there's an irresistible image that I can hold on to . . . Honeybunch" he grinned, repositioning himself with his feet up against the panel, before bending his knees and kicking it.

It dented, letting in a glimpse of light.

"Ah, the subtle approach!" declared his companion.

"Subtlety is overrated," he tossed back. "Me? I'm more of a 'blow things up' kind of guy."

"But enough about you," Saraesa rejoined, pointing at the panel. "Again!"

He glanced back at her, before ramming it again. This time it burst open, and the relative brightness made him blink.

"Nice going, Starbuck!" Saraesa grinned at him.

"Lords above! Was that . . . _praise_?" he gasped in return. He placed a hand over his heart. "Oh, be still my beating . . ."

"Oh Sagan, I can see your ego recharging as we speak," she returned with mock dismay. "What in Hades Hole have I done?"

"Yeah? Well don't get too worried about the size of my ego. The Cylons will know where the closest access hatches are, and they're going to be checking them. Fifty will get you a hundred this hatch had a sensor." He hastily moved through the access panel, feet first. "_And _they'll be sealing the corridors." Standing up, he took a look around from the small platform he was on. A ladder from the ground level was attached. No Cylons yet, but he could hear footfalls in the distance.

"There has to be _some _way out of here," Saraesa replied, climbing out of the panel, and brushing off the hand he offered.

"There is," he replied, pointing upwards.

The ladder didn't end at the filtration system. Above them about another six metrons was another hatch, sealed shut.

"Is that what I _think_ it is?" Saraesa asked hesitantly.

"Only one way to find out . . ." he returned, suddenly weighing the risks.

"Do you realize what could _happen_ if we get caught up there?" she whispered frantically, gripping his arm.

"Then, let's not," he replied with a reckless smile. "Get caught, I mean."


	27. Chapter 27

Part 27

The basic idea was sound. Blow the hatch to the launch and landing bay, preventing the Cylons from launching, or any active patrols from landing and refuelling, for when the Colonials began their attack. If the other two teams did their jobs and blew the Cylon Control Centre, munitions dump and fuel bunkers, then the attack would be over shortly after it began. Maybe it was a bit ambitious, and realistically Command probably didn't expect all three teams to complete their missions, _or _make it back out alive, but the beauty of the threefold strategy was that any part of it succeeding would go a long way in helping the impending air strike by crippling the Cylons.

Still, Apollo could have wept as the enormous hatch started to open.

Now why he had assumed that the hatch would conveniently stay closed for him, as he not only planted the solenite charges, but started rigging them to ignite on activation . . . well, it _had_ been short sighted to say the least. He pressed himself back behind the metal beam that had been sheltering him from sight, as the enemy patrol began to land one at a time. His heart fluttered for a moment, as he wondered if the approaching Battlestar had been detected, and this very group of Cylons was about to warn the Base about the impending Colonial attack.

_Easy there, don't go off on a tangent . . ._

The routine patrols had been a part of the reconnaissance report, according to what the colonel had told them in the mission briefing. Apollo closed his eyes, trying to remember the exact turn-around time for this patrol to land, and the next one to take off. He couldn't set the charges until the hangar doors were closed again, and the majority of the Cylon task force was sealed inside the Base. The actual attack was to coincide with the time that next patrol was low on fuel, and before their replacements were finished fuelling and arming, and could launch. He checked his chrono . . .

Sweat dripped down his back, and seemed to run in rivulets down his face. Lords, if he perspired any more, he'd short-circuit the helmet, losing the technological advantages. Not that they were doing him a lot of good at the moment. The pain in his leg was like an immuring force, impelling him to the deck. The last dose from the hypo was already wearing off, prematurely in his opinion, making him wonder if the drug cylinder was empty. Apollo allowed himself to slump against the wall, and slowly slide downward, gritting his teeth as he cradled his right thigh, stretching it out before him. It was about then that his entire body turned to mush, as he went limp with exhaustion and discouragement.

_Oh, blessed respite._

Never had so many things on a mission gone _wrong_. Never had he hoped that somebody else—Starbuck being the obvious choice—could suddenly appear and simply finish the job for him. After all, wasn't Apollo overdue to be the guy that sat on the sidelines for a change, letting someone else claim victory and glory? Didn't he end up taking all the difficult missions? The impossible challenges? The dangerous assignments? The one-way leaps into the roaring maw of Hades Hole, mocking death? Wasn't it about time that somebody came to___ his_ rescue? To bail _him_ out when he was sitting there in agony, unable to continue? Sagan, he was so damn tired.

___Sooooo tired . . ._

And he damn well knew he only had another fifteen or twenty centons to get his head out of his astrum, and himself back in the game to finish the mission.


	28. Chapter 28

Part 28

The corridor was dimly lit, and curiously empty, but Starbuck instinctively kept as low to the ground as he could without resorting to crawling on hands and knees again. He glanced back to see Saraesa hanging back reluctantly. She wasn't crazy about this idea, but there was no other real choice available just now. It was either penetrate this level, or wait for an inevitable showdown with the Cylons.

He motioned to her to follow, and she hesitated a moment more before she quietly closed the hatch behind her, and slunk his way. In her black jumpsuit, in the shadows of muted light, she looked almost spectral as she quickly covered the space between them. Her eyes locked on his, and he found a inexplicable sense of expectation sweep over him, before she stopped, squatting alongside him at the junction of a corridor.

"Which way?" she whispered, her words barely audible. Then she glanced up and down the corridors anxiously, looking for any sign that she might have been heard. Strangely, there were no security vids in the corridors, nor any other sort of internal sensors. Visible ones, anyway.

Starbuck patted her gently on the shoulder, and pointed to the right, using his internal scanners to guide him. That and an educated guess based on what he figured had to be the most direct route to the landing bay from his knowledge of the layout of the Base. While there weren't many advantages to being captured, other than the fact that your untimely death had been blissfully delayed, at least he'd managed to get the grand tour. Although, the tour guides weren't as informative or as friendly as he would have liked, and there were no refreshments offered.

Saraesa nodded mutely, seemingly content to let him lead this time around. It was interesting, he mused, that she seemed more afraid of breeching this highly restricted level than she had been in the presence of the Cylons. Once again, he couldn't help but wonder if she was a Cylon spy. An attractive one—all parts present and accounted for, not to mention a perfect . . . chassis—but with a mouth like a fishwife.

Again, he cautiously started forward, silently creeping along the corridor. Every sense was attuned to his surroundings. If they were discovered here, it would all come to an end in the blink of an eye. One flash of a laser, and it would be game over. No questions asked. Failure. Death. All that felgercarb.

He could already imagine the chewing out that the colonel would give him for taking this chance. For risking it all. But if you weren't playing, you couldn't win, and "winning" was, after all, why they were here in the first place. Not to mention that if he hadn't infiltrated the upper level, more than likely he'd be back in the Brig right now.

Or dead.

He squinted slightly as he noticed a bright ray of light emitting from the end of the corridor. Closer to him, he saw light filtering out from beneath a closed door. Curiously, it was the old-fashioned style that swung outward, instead of sliding open and shut. A levered handle and an entry panel that controlled its access were also visible. He paused, holding up a hand to Saraesa, trying to get her to hold back, and let him check it out. Typically, she looked beyond him, also seeing the beckoning light, and then shook her head at him in silent argument. Her lips tightened, stubbornly set, and she gave him an insistent push to urge him onward.

Starbuck sighed, then set off again.

He'd never met a woman quite like her. Fiercely independent, and completely immune to his obvious charms, with a quicksilver tongue that could flay a lesser man to shreds. A confusing mix of "come hither", and "back off, Bub!". The sort of woman that he could never fully understand, but was nevertheless drawn to.

Like an insect to a crawlon's web.

He paused at the closed door, putting an ear to it and hearing muted voices within. It could be some kind of guard house. Frack, it could be just about anything. He couldn't make out what was said, or even get a feel for how many sentries were within. Cupping his ear, he shook his head at Saraesa to indicate the same. She nodded, pointing towards the end of the corridor, looking anxious to leave the closed door behind them.

Finally, a further access hatch going downward and another closed door with a viewing window greeted them. There was a soft glow coming from the viewing window that bathed them in light, making them increasingly jittery now that they were more visible to the naked eye. Optical sensors would have picked them up regardless, however, a false sense of security was preferable to none at all. Starbuck blew out a breath, and slowly approached the window. He peeked up from the bottom edge, not surprised to see an array of screens curving around and above the main station, all displaying areas of the Base under surveillance. Other than that, only a connecting door was visible to an inner chamber. A lone occupant was visible, monitoring the station.

Lords, if he could get inside, and gain accessibility to the entire surveillance network, the rest of the mission would be a comparative joyride. He almost laughed aloud when he saw that the door on his side was slightly ajar. Well, he could obviously gain access without ever touching the entry panel, but without a weapon, how could he . . .?

The sentinel rose slowly from his seat, and headed for the adjoining room within. _The little Cylon's room?_ Starbuck narrowed his eyes, quickly studying the area. There was no time to waste. He pulled off his jacket, getting ready. He'd have to time it to the milli-centon, or he'd end up in serious trouble. However, if the Goddess of Luck was with him. . .

"Give me the fork," he whispered to Saraesa, holding out his hand for it. It was the only weapon or tool that they had, and he knew for a fact that she was still carrying it.

Her expression was both curious and reluctant. She obvious didn't want to part with it. "Why?" she returned as her blue eyes followed the progression of the occupant within. It took her all of a micron to assess the situation, then realization lit her features and she looked at him in horror. "Just what the frack are you thinking? Of all the harebrained ideas!"

"_Now_!" he hissed impatiently. There wasn't time for another debate.

She shook her head, like a schoolmarm casting judgment on a child, before handing it over. "You're crazy, Warrior. If you get caught, I'm going for the hatch," she warned him, washing her hands of the scheme.

"Do what you have to," he quietly replied, wrapping his jacket sleeve around the handle of the tylinium tool, and then switching it to his left hand. Cautiously, he turned the levered handle, and pushed the door open slowly. "I'm doing what _I _have to."


	29. Chapter 29

Part 29

Getting up again after the massive hatch closed, and the Cylon patrol left, was about the most challenging thing that Apollo had ever done. The throbbing in his leg was excruciating, and he eyed the backpack hesitantly, knowing that while the hypospray was out of local anaesthetic, a similar supply of effective analgesic was still only an arm's reach away. It was a dilemma. While the pain relief would be a godsend, he really didn't want to be dealing with solenite while under the influence of narcotics.

Supporting any weight on his right leg was almost unbearable, but somehow Apollo forced himself to keep moving, setting the final few charges and activating them remotely to complete the circuit. It took every bit of concentration he had to keep focused on the task before him, and not rip open the med kit. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let out the groans that fought to escape. It was as though his own pain was now the enemy. He would not surrender. He was a Colonial Warrior, and would not allow his own weakness to overcome his need to achieve his objective. Sacrifice was part of the job. Mastering weaknesses and refusing to give in to them were expectations. He was trained for this.

He sniffed humourlessly, trying to remember any other inspiring words that various instructors and superior officers had drilled into him over the yahrens, which Starbuck would dismiss as "so much felgercarb" when worst came to worst. Still, the reality was that the reasons didn't matter. Finishing the job was what they did, and they would do it for God and the Colonial Nation until they drew their last breath.

_Enough? Ready now?_

"Yeah," he murmured to himself, at last finished. He extended his arm, this time reaching for the pack with a shaking hand and pulling out the hypospray one more time. His fingers felt almost wooden as he selected the setting for analgesic, and pressed it against his skin.

_Whoosh!_

He closed his eyes, feeling the drug wash over him like a warm, welcoming wave of comfort, keeping the agony at bay, at least for a little while longer. He needed to get out of the launch bay, making sure that he was far from the solenite. He glanced at his chrono. It was less than a centar before the attack would begin and this base would be blown to Hades Hole. He had less than that to find Starbuck and get out of there.

He ignored the sudden wave of dizziness that swept over him, and the aching thirst that demanded to be slaked. _Later. _Pulling on his pack, he began to slowly and determinedly retrace his steps, trying to figure out where Starbuck would head if he had indeed escaped, and how his friend would get there if there was a Base-wide search out for him, and sections were sealed off. Logically, he would try to rendezvous with Apollo, but how? Glancing upward as he reached the rope connected by a grapple, it hit him.

_He wouldn't!_

"Oh yes, he would," Apollo murmured with a smile.


	30. Chapter 30

Part 30

Starbuck heard the door to the adjoining room click closed, and then he sprang upright, racing across the room, and taking a running jump before he stabbed the fork into the door's entry panel to seal the sentry within. Sparks shot out of the panel, and despite the fact that his intent was to let go of the tylinium tool before his feet touched the ground again, a fiery jolt of pain shot up his arm. Fleetingly, he realized he could taste it on his tongue, and feel it in his chest.

_Oh great, Starbuck. Electrocute yourself!_

How he came to be sitting on his astrum under the smouldering panel, his back against the door, he wasn't quite sure. Suddenly Saraesa was leaning over him, her eyes blazing into his.

"Damn you!" she cursed. "I told you it was stupid. Lords! Colonial Warriors! No wonder we're in trouble! Of all of the idiotic, mong-for-brains, felger-licking . . ."

"Crazy, actually," he returned after a moment. He flexed his left hand, and stared at it dumbly as she pulled up his sleeve, examining his arm. A faint red streak ran up the underside of his arm, disappearing under the sleeve of his upper arm. It was tingling, burning, and kind of numb in places, but he could move it well enough. "You said, 'crazy'."

"Okay, so it's a toss up. Stupid or crazy, I'm not sure which any more," she rejoined, startling as a muted sound from within the sealed off compartment was followed by a determined shaking of the door. "And if you make any cracks about 'always wanting to be a conductor', I'll personally . . ."

"Hey, I'm insulated from such low-brow humour. Besides, it worked," he interrupted, feeling the force that the sentinel was putting against the door. At least ten centimetrons thick, there was no way it could be broken down. Not even by a Cylon. The sentry was locked in, the prisoner of a fried entry system. The station was Starbuck's . . . for the moment. He started to push himself upward to take a look at the monitors, and grunted quietly in frustration as his limbs refused to cooperate. The breath hissed out between his teeth as a fire raged up his arm again. He'd definitely received a good shot of the current when he'd mutilated the access panel with the tylinium utensil.

"You could have been killed, Starbuck," Saraesa told him flat out. She put an arm around him, helping to support him as he struggled to his feet and headed for the surveillance station.

He smiled, suspecting an underlying concern. Maybe the Starbuck charm wasn't lost on her after all. "I think I'm touched."

She grumbled, "Yeah, I think you're touched too. In the head."

"Yet, you came back, Saraesa," he reminded her, his eyes running over the monitors that seemed to be watching every metron of the Base. He steadied himself against the console, and started using the guidance system to direct the vid feed. First he checked the Brig and interrogation rooms, looking for any stray members of the teams. All clear. The Control Centre seemed to be fully operational. The munitions dump was quiet. Casually, he scanned through the Base, trying not to let on exactly what he was up to. To Saraesa it had to appear random. Now, if he could spot Apollo in the launch bay . . . He zoomed in on a length of rope attached to a gangway, then quickly panned the perimeter. Cylons, Cylons, and more Cylons. "I thought you were going to haul astrum, and get out of here."

"Well, don't take it too personally," she shot back, following his progress on the monitor. "I thought if I could get a look at my ship, and find out where exactly she was . . ." Her words trailed off and she leaned closer, studying the monitor intently, as he panned in on an unfamiliar sleek little fighter in the bay that looked like it was built more for speed than fire power.

"Is that it?" Starbuck asked, watching her closely as she sucked in an audible breath.

She brushed her hair irritably from her face, frowning when she noticed that it had been partially disassembled and thoroughly searched. "Frack . . ." she murmured quietly, before slamming a fist down on the console, and adding vehemently, "God _dammit_! Look what they've done to her!"

"You're no smuggler," he mused aloud, looking her over with new eyes. She actually had a ship. However, that fighter wouldn't hold the kind of cargo that a smuggler generally carried.

She smiled slightly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Is that what you thought . . . _Warrior_?"

"Smuggler or a Cylon spy," he replied honestly. "It was a toss up."

She blew out a short breath. "Did it ever occur to you that _I_ thought _you_ might be the spy?"

He sniffed derisively. "_Me_?"

"Yeah," she smiled slightly. "But Cylon spies don't generally go around electrocuting themselves."

"A shame really," he rejoined with a grin.

"Yes," she smiled in agreement, looking him over dubiously.

Two people with their own agenda, neither trusting the other, but willing to work together, at least in the interim. It was time to lay all the cards down on the table. Well, except the one up his sleeve. "What then? Who are you really?"

Saraesa frowned, considering him a moment before replying, "Bureaucratic envoy."

"Are you serious?" The stunned surprise must have been etched on his face.

"Absolutely." She nodded, then asked, "Do you have a way out of here? Off this planet?"

He sucked in a breath. This was it. Trust worked both ways. "Yeah. But I need to do something before I get out of here. And that's not negotiable." He still hadn't spotted any signs of Apollo, but there were certainly signs that he'd been in the launch bay. Only the Lords of Kobol knew where he was now.

"But you won't tell me _what_," she added, studying his features, and taking a step closer. "You don't trust me completely, do you?"

"Give me a reason to," he challenged her.

Her voice was solemn and barely above a whisper when she spoke. "We have allies out there, Starbuck. Allies that the Colonial people aren't even aware of yet."

"Well, seeing as how you were a prisoner, then the Cylons must know about these . . ."

She shook her head. "They didn't get anything out of me! I swear. I may not be a Colonial Warrior, but I've had training in resisting Cylon torture techniques." Then she turned away, letting out a deep breath. "Besides . . . the military alliance arranged between us and the Darthinians, and the information on their military strength . . ."

"Darthinians?" he repeated, looking at her back doubtfully.

"I know. You've never heard of them. But there was a time when our people hadn't heard of Cylons either," Saraesa replied. "Starbuck, all the critical details—including a personally recorded message from Doyenne Uhari—are in a small data crystal concealed in the cockpit of my ship." Then she turned, looking back at him. "We have to retrieve it if there's any chance in Hades Hole that I can still get it to the President."

"Doyenne Uhari . . ." Starbuck murmured, glancing back at the screen, trying to weigh the likelihood that this was true. Lords, he wished Apollo was here. If anyone would have heard of these negotiations, _he_ would have. After all, Commander Adama's son . . . Then again, would Adama confide in his son about such delicate bureaucratic matters? "How can you be sure that the data crystal is even still there?"

"Because the panel is virtually undetectable. And if the compartment is forced open, or the wrong code is entered, it triggers a detonation sequence. If the ship is still in one piece, then there's no way they've found the crystal."

"Saraesa . . ." he sighed. "It's in the _middle_ of a Cylon landing bay." A landing bay that had probably been rigged to explode at this point, but he still wasn't ready to tell her that quite yet.

"I didn't say it would be easy." She smiled then, taking another step closer until they were almost touching. "Too tough for you, Warrior?" she arched an eyebrow in silent challenge. "Hmm?"

He put a hand at the small of her back, pulling her against him. There was an undeniable chemistry between them, that would be incredibly distracting in any other circumstance. _But you're not distracted now, are you Bucko?_ "I eat Base Ships for breakfast."

Saraesa grinned, pausing a moment to brush his hair from his eyes with her fingertips, before looping both arms around his neck. "Then I guess I have the right man."

With a rueful grin, he looked right and then left. "Darlin', you have the _only_ . . ."

"Shut up and kiss me, Honeybunch," she shot back, pulling him towards her.

He was only too willing. Starbuck placed his hand behind her neck, purposely entangling it in her dark, silky hair. He'd been dying to do that since he met her. Tenderly, he kissed her. She looked at him curiously, and then expectantly, licking her bottom lip and taking a halting breath. Yeah, she was surprised. He smiled at her, before he captured her lips again.

Gentle, coaxing, teasing, then with increasing ardour, they clung together as a spark flared to a flame. Both knew there was little time, and that knowledge only intensified their passion, as they stole precious microns for mutual pleasure. It was an unexpected freedom, an escape from the rigours of duty, and the intense heat of the moment left them breathless when they finally drew apart.

Starbuck blew out a ragged breath, weaving his fingers through hers as he studied her flushed features. She looked more beautiful than ever, devoid of her usual sarcastic and cynical façade. He started to say something, but an inarticulate gasp was all he could manage. So he grinned roguishly instead.

Saraesa smiled. "That was nice."

"Oh yeah . . ." he agreed, then startled as the occupant of the storeroom crashed against the door. The sentinel was losing his patience.

"Starbuck!" Saraesa cried suddenly, pointing towards a surveillance vidcam mounted in the corner, recording their every move. A pinpoint red light shone from its mounting.

"Frack . . ." he muttered, pivoting back towards the control panel, as the door crashed again, and a faint voice rumbled from within the adjacent room. They really needed to cover their tracks, assuming no one else was monitoring this frequency. If Colonial Warriors were caught here . . . His fingers flew across the controls, and his eyes scanned the monitors.

"There!" Saraesa called, pointing to the screen that displayed them. "Can you delete the vidfeed?"

"I'm going to try, but surveillance isn't exactly my forte."

"Well, it's one of mine," Saraesa informed him, pushing him insistently aside. "Let me. You knock out that vidcam."

"I'm on it," he replied, heading that way, his limbs a little slow to respond.

"Oh . . . and don't use the fork, Starbuck," Saraesa inserted, her tone teasing. "The vidcam looks like it's hard wired into the network, and is probably hotter than a sunburnt Cylon."

"Right," he nodded, grabbing up a chair and smashing it up into the corner. The vidcam crumbled, and the red light within faded to black. The chair faired slightly better. "Done."

"A delicate solution," she grinned, observing his handiwork. A staccato tapping continued to fill the room. "Alright, that's the surveillance data erased. Now, let's see what's what . . ."

"What are you . . .?" he started to ask before she pointed to another monitor.

Starbuck groaned aloud when he observed the star of the show. His chest tightened convulsively as he raised a shaking hand, pointing it at the adjoining door. "Is that the storage room? _This_ storage room." _Oh, Lord _. . .

"Uh huh."

"Oh . . . _frack_!" he cursed, pounding a fist into the console. "I don't _believe _this . . ."

"Let's go. What's done is done, and we've been here too long." Saraesa grabbed his hand, dragging him towards the corridor.

"But . . ." he glanced back at the door. He winced as it shook again. "I'm dead."

She gave him a determined push towards the hatch. "Well, stick with me now, Starbuck, and I'll give you some more mouth to mouth later to revive you."

He smiled slightly, bending down to crank the hatch. "It might take advanced life support. You have no idea how dead I'm gonna be." He pulled the tylinium door open and looked below. All clear.

"Ooh, _you_ work fast . . ." she laughed.

"Life is too short to spend in regret." _Just keep telling yourself that, Bucko! _ He descended the rungs quickly as she followed him down. It could be attributed to good planning, or more likely dumb luck, but they had come out above the landing bay. Still, they were too exposed on the ladder, even tucked away as they were in what appeared to be a fighter maintenance area. Suddenly, the blast of a pulse rifle filled their ears. Starbuck's hand reflexively reached for his empty holster.

"Surrender-Humans!"

"It's too short to spend in the Brig too!" Saraesa yelled down as she spotted the centurions through the cluttered bay. "Let's get the frack out of here, Warrior!"

"Jump for it!" he shouted.


	31. Chapter 31

Part 31

It was unbelievable. Only _Starbuck_ could find a beautiful woman while being taken captive in a Cylon Base. His squadron leader gets hung up in a tree, rips his leg open, and has to climb atop God knows how much ducting while doped up and in pain. But _Starbuck _gets the girl!!

At least some things remained the same in a changing universe!

The thoughts had barely crossed Apollo's mind when he heard the pulse rifle, and saw the laser fire darting across his visor's screen. He pulled his weapon, abruptly giving Starbuck and his newfound friend some covering fire from his vantage point far above them. Cylons were storming in their direction . . . making it almost prescient that Apollo had hung onto a couple of spare solenite charges. He adjusted the timer delay, and threw one.

"Starbuck, hit the deck!" he shouted, as he ducked behind a girder, and counted. Two, one . . .

A moment later, Apollo was assessing the damage, impressed by the blast radius identified by the scanner display on his helmet's visor. Cylons were down all around them. Starbuck and the girl, on the other hand, appeared unharmed, taking shelter behind the shell of a fighter. Apollo grabbed the rope he'd already anchored, and began repelling carefully downward. The leg was alternating between burning and throbbing, but it was nothing that the squadron leader couldn't handle. Starbuck was on the move, picking up the nearest pulse rifle and checking its condition.

"Good timing, Apollo!" Starbuck called out, grabbing up a second rifle and tossing the first towards the girl. "Do you know how to use that, Saraesa?"

"Do Cylons rust, Sweet Cheeks?" Methodically, she checked the weapon, adding, "So, is this the non-negotiable thing you had to do? Find your friend?"

"That depends," Starbuck replied, meeting Apollo on the run as both warriors swept the area with their weapons. He glanced at Apollo's leg, taking in the expanded bloodstain, wincing slightly before asking, "Is everything set?"

"Yeah," Apollo replied with a nod, glancing at his chrono. "Forty centons, Starbuck."

The blond warrior nodded, synchronizing his own timepiece. "Forty centons, check. What's the word on the others?"

"Signals received. They're ready."

"That's good news. Are you okay?" He looked down at his friend's wound. "How's the leg, buddy?"

"Just fine. No problems."

"So that big ole blood stain that's filling your boot is . . ." Starbuck shrugged slightly, "inconsequential?" He raised an eyebrow, as he pulled insistently at Apollo's backpack.

Apollo smiled, shrugging the pack off. It was good to have his friend back at his side. "Pretty much. After all, what are a few mangled limbs among friends?"

"Yeah, right," the blond warrior returned wryly. Then the girl sauntered over. Starbuck opened his mouth, looking as though he was about to launch into a long tale, as he raised his hand like an orator of yore. Then a sudden look of indecision settled on his features before he dropped the hand and merely said, "Apollo, Saraesa. Saraesa, Apollo."

Apollo inclined his head, wondering how she had come to be here, but knew that Starbuck would eventually fill him in on the details . . . pertinent _and_ otherwise.

Saraesa nodded briefly. "I hate to dispense with the pleasantries, boys, but under the circumstances . . . I need to get to my ship."

"Your ship . . .?" Apollo started.

Suddenly, a klaxon blared, making them all jump.

"Intruder-alert! All-available-centurions-report-to-launch-bay! Engage-enemy!" the comm system seemed to roar.

"Frackin' bloody Hades Hole!" Saraesa tensed, her hand tightening on her weapon. Then, with a quick look left and right, she abruptly took off on the run.

Starbuck shrugged at Apollo, almost apologetically, as he pulled the pack onto his shoulders. "She says she's a bureaucratic envoy carrying top secret data crystals for the President concerning an alliance with these people called the Darthinians. The data crystals are supposed to be hidden in her ship."

"Do you believe her?" Apollo asked, a mixture of excitement and scepticism running through him. _Darthinians?_ It was possible . . . but was it _probable_? He'd seen an out-of-place ship while making his way to and from the exterior hatch, but it had seemed superfluous to the mission objective at that time. But now . . .

Indecision settled on Starbuck's features, and he let out a sigh. "I guess I'm afraid I _want_ to believe her, more than I _do_ believe her."

"_Ahh_," sighed Apollo.

The warrior shrugged. "Does that make sense?"

"Coming from you, Starbuck, yes," chuckled Apollo, slapping his friend on the shoulder. "I don't know how you do it . . ."

"Yeah? Well, sometimes I don't know either . . ." He glanced uncertainly at Saraesa, watching her serpentine path through the bay. "This one's trouble, Apollo . . ." He shook his head slightly. "But I have to admit . . . I kind of like it." He grinned suddenly, his eyes almost sparkling with satisfaction.

"She looks very . . . _persuasive_," Apollo added, breaking into an uneven jog alongside his friend.

"You don't know the half of it, buddy," Starbuck replied.

"Halt-Humans!"

"_Damn_! Why do they always say that?"


	32. Chapter 32

Part 32

It was in the field manual; when a Cylon said, "Halt!" if at all possible you did the opposite.

In this case, the Cylons were only just now penetrating the landing bay, filing through the hatch in single file, just as they always did. The odds were in the favour of the warriors. It would take a crack shot among the wildly moving centurions to actually hit Starbuck or Apollo as they raced towards Saraesa's fighter to meet up with the alluring and intriguing young woman as she presumably retrieved vital, top secret data crystals meant for the President's eyes only. Only metrons away now . . .

Then the burst of a pulse rifle firing from behind them filled Starbuck's ears about the same time that Apollo hit him hard from behind, and they both crashed to the ground. The breath whooshed out of Starbuck lungs, and he rolled over, dislodging Apollo from atop him as the dark-haired warrior grunted in pain.

It took Starbuck a micron to ascertain they were both relatively unscathed, at least from any new injuries, as he struggled to draw a breath. Then he grabbed the back of Apollo's jacket, scrambling backwards on his astrum, using Saraesa's fighter for cover as he pulled his friend under the fighter's fuselage and to its other side. The blessed sound of returning fire from the cockpit above them heartened the warrior. Saraesa was still with him, and dropping Cylons.

"The weapons . . ." Apollo grunted, his face twisted into a rictus of agony, as he writhed on the deck, his hands enveloping his bloodied thigh.

Starbuck nodded, scurrying below the fighter's belly again to retrieve their scattered weapons while Cylons continued to head towards them, unmindful of the inherent danger, or more likely programmed to ignore it. Even as he looked up, another of the enemy cyborgs went down. Lying on his belly, Starbuck sent up a silent prayer of thanks for her marksmanship, and joined Saraesa in the onslaught on the advancing centurions, squeezing the trigger, and feeling the familiar bursts of power surge through the Colonial weapon. Still, despite more than a dozen of their number destroyed or damaged, the centurions kept advancing. They needed something more powerful than mere hand weapons if they were going to make any kind of impact on an enemy that outnumbered them so substantially.

And twenty to one was _fairly _substantial, Starbuck decided.

"Starbuck!" Apollo called from behind.

Squeezing the trigger, and watching with a growing frustration as the fallen centurion was replaced by three more, Starbuck hazarded a glance back at his friend. In Apollo's hand was a solenite charge. With a grin, Starbuck twisted around, reaching out and grabbing the explosive as it skittered across the deck towards him.

"If you didn't smell like gore, sweat, and your Dad's aftershave, I'd kiss ya," he shouted over the din as he adjusted the setting from 'timer' to 'impact'.

"I'll pass, thanks," Apollo retorted, looking more like his old self as he crawled towards Starbuck's position. Once again, he'd pulled it together enough to continue. "Toss me my laser! I'll cover you!"

"You got it!" Starbuck quickly engaged the safety, sliding the weapon towards his squadron leader with a single fluid motion. A moment later, Apollo was alongside him, picking off Cylons with his usual skill and alacrity. "_Saraesa_!" Starbuck called up when the laser fire from the cockpit seemed as though it had disappeared. "I need cover!"

"I can't open the frackin' compartment!" she returned from the cockpit, her voice shrill and desperate.

"Later! I need cover! _NOW_!"

"Do you have more solenite?" she asked, her tone suddenly hopeful.

"Yes, but . . ."

"Let me throw it! I'm in a better position . . ."

"And I'm willing to bet _you_ throw like a girl!" he countered. "_Cover me_!"

"You bloody conceited, chauvinistic porcine . . ." she exploded, just before a barrage of covering fire started up again from her position. Centurions toppled to the deck as she exorcised her wrath with the Cylon weapon.

_Definitely worth noting, Bucko._

"You can sure pick 'em!" Apollo yelled above the laser fire. He targeted yet another centurion, and it shuddered in place before collapsing a milli-centon later.

"Well, my choices were kinda limited in the Brig, buddy," Starbuck riposted, climbing to his knees. "Matron always said that prison wasn't the most ideal place to pick up girls."

"I can see you heeded her advice," Apollo yelled back.

"Yeah, well, she also told me that _I'd_ probably meet my soul mate there," Starbuck quipped. He arched his arm behind his head, ready to throw.

"It's the last one, Starbuck." Apollo told him. "Make it count."

The charge left his fingers and sailed through the air as Starbuck spotted the Cylon weapon aimed for his chest. Sudden terror gripped him by the throat, as he twisted to his side, and hurled himself towards the deck.


	33. Chapter 33

Part 33

For Apollo, it was like watching a horror-vid in slow motion. One moment, Starbuck was catapulting the solenite charge towards the enemy, and the next, the beam of a Cylon laser was heading straight towards him.

"_No_!" Apollo yelled, as he instinctively tried to exert himself in Starbuck's direction to push him out of the way. Instead, burning agony ripped through his leg, and he pitched forward, falling flat on his face.

The sound of Apollo's own scream, torn from his throat, and the all-encompassing and agonizing feeling of his leg being sundered by the very daggits of Hades Hole, all but eclipsed the next few moments. When the red mists of suffering began to lift, and the squadron leader's head started to clear, the identity code on his visor relayed that the digital image staring down at him was . . .

"You're alive . . ." Apollo murmured in disbelief.

"Oh, good," Starbuck returned, his tone light. "I was wondering about that." He glanced towards the destroyed Cylon task force, raking a hand through his hair. "We decimated them, buddy. But I'm guessing that reinforcements are on the way." Then he looked back at his friend, expelling an audible breath before warning Apollo, "This will probably hurt you more than me, but we have to stop the bleeding."

It abruptly occurred to Apollo that the indifference he was feeling had to be due to blood loss. After all, Sarbuck was talking about _his _bleeding. Some time between the solenite charge wiping out the Cylon task force, and Apollo's head clearing, Starbuck had taken down his leg bandage. Even worse, his friend was planning to do something about his wound.

"What are you going to do?" Apollo asked, groaning aloud as he sprang upward, then immediately regretted it as the fire in his leg raged again. "_Frack_ . . ." he gasped, lying back.

"Your choice, buddy. Either I end this whole farce, or I cauterise that bleeder in your leg with argentum nitrate."

Apollo pulled off his helmet, wiping the sweaty hair from his forehead. Sure enough a steady trickle of blood was running down his leg. They had come so damn close. He refused to quit.

"Do it," he said quietly.

Starbuck looked at him doubtfully. Apollo's tone hadn't exactly been convincing.

"You guys alright?" came Saraesa's voice.

"More or less," replied Starbuck.

Apollo grasped his friend's forearm, looking him in the eye. "Do it, Starbuck."

Starbuck sucked in another breath between his teeth, before raising the hypospray and injecting it against Apollo's skin.

_Whoosh!_

It had to be a dosal dub. Or maybe it was a . . . a double dose. Apollo wasn't quite sure which. However, the warm and wonderful feeling of narcotic induced relief washed over him, lapping against him gently, rocking his battered body in the soothing lull . . . until a tidal wave of firestorm crashed against his leg, and the stench of burnt flesh filled his senses.


	34. Chapter 34

Part 34

Starbuck wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, finding his feet and reeling away from Apollo, finally coming to lean against the fastness of Saraesa's fighter. He just had to get away for a moment. Had to focus on something else. Like how to get them out of there, for instance. He shuddered as an image of Apollo's hideous leg flashed into his mind. It was etched there, like a brand. His stomach lurched again, and he fought down the recurrent waves of nausea.

"Are you okay? Did it work?" Saraesa asked, her arms creeping around him from behind, offering comfort, and surprisingly, no criticism.

"Yeah . . ." he breathed, as her breath tickled the back of his neck. "The bleeding stopped. For now." He leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the fuselage, drawing a few steadying breaths, as his heartbeat slowed from light speed to rapid fire. Apollo had thankfully lost consciousness, just before the meagre contents of Starbuck's stomach had spewed across the deck, as the stench of his best friend's burning flesh and the sound of his tortured scream assaulted his senses.

_Way to go, tough guy . . ._

He glanced back at his friend, knowing he had to tightly wrap up that partially blackened, raw, puffy, purple-tinged leg again before Apollo awoke. It was a perfect textbook example of what happened when an injured warrior didn't take himself out of the game. And Starbuck had been the perfect accomplice, letting Apollo convince him that he would be okay. "I _hate_ field medicine."

"Well, thankfully for Apollo, you appear to be pretty good at it . . . or at least willing to try. But that leg doesn't look good," Saraesa frowned.

"That's putting it mildly," Starbuck returned, squeezing her hand slightly before releasing it, and reluctantly turning back to his duty. It wouldn't be long before the Cylons sent another assault wave against them. He knelt down beside Apollo, grabbing a field dressing and looking down at the ugly wound again. Then he started wrapping it tightly, grimacing as Apollo moaned softly and insensately while his leg was manipulated. "Easy, buddy. Won't be long."

"Starbuck . . . can I borrow the laser?" Saraesa unexpectedly asked.

"Huh?" Starbuck replied, stopping in his movements to look up at her. She still had a pulse-rifle in her grip. "Why?"

"I can't get the compartment in my fighter open."

He raised his eyebrows. "So . . . you figure on blowing it open?"

"I'll laser it open on a low setting. Like a surgeon cutting open his patient."

"I thought you said if the compartment was tampered with, that the ship would blow." He glanced at her ship. "Some kind of auto-defensive system."

She smiled slightly, stroking her chin lightly with her index finger. "I lied."

"You lied . . ." he repeated monotone. After all that had already happened, strangely it didn't seem all that surprising. Then again, maybe he was just too numb to care . . .

"I needed to give you reason enough to come to the launch bay," she explained. "I had to get to the data crystals."

_The mission is the prime objective . . . _

"I was already coming . . ." he glanced down meaningfully at Apollo. His friend was still unconscious, but the steady rise and fall of his chest was reassuring in itself.

"I didn't know that." She shrugged. "You weren't exactly upfront about what was going on."

"Then that makes two of us," he replied, finishing the bandaging and climbing to his feet. He handed her Apollo's weapon, aware that he still hadn't filled her in to a large extent. "You get your data crystals. I need to find us another way out of here. I'm wagering there's about an ice cube's chance in Hades Hole that we'll be able to get out of here through the base." He glanced around, his eyes sweeping the bay, and then he saw it. _Perfect!_

"_Oh,_ I recognize that look. What are you thinking?"

"Just stick with me, darlin'. I'm full of surprises," he told her, heading across the tarmac.

"I'm coming to realize that, Honeybunch," she called back as she climbed into her cockpit.


	35. Chapter 35

Part 35

Apollo blinked, his eyelids dragging across the gritty surface of his eyes, as he startled awake. He tried to focus as biting smoke and irritating dust wafted through the landing bay, making the air thick and almost unbreathable. Speaking of unbreathable, the stench of vomit permeated the area. He'd obviously lost his mushies at some point . . . but strangely the acrid taste hadn't lingered in his mouth . . . His ears were ringing, as though something had exploded, besides his throbbing head. For a fleeting micron he wondered if his solenite charges had gone off already and he'd missed it . . . but that couldn't be. Could it? Rolling to his side, he groaned as his leg burned in pain, reminding him vaguely how he had come to be unconscious. He glanced at his chrono, squinting while trying to check the countdown, as his eyes began to water uncooperatively.

"Are you okay?"

Even with her jacket half obscuring her face—held there as a makeshift filter—he realized it was the girl. Strangely enough, she was now wearing the Colonial backpack, and waiting somewhat patiently despite the chaos around them. He had to conclude she had recovered her hidden data crystals from her ship, and that they were safely concealed upon her person.

"I'm fine. Did you get the crystals?" he asked, just to make sure.

She nodded, "Got 'em."

He looked around, trying to gather his thoughts. Across the bay, the dust and debris were twice as dense closer to the wall . . . and something looked like it was ablaze, but the air was so thick, he couldn't see the actual damage. Then the flames fizzled out anticlimactically.

"What happened?" Apollo croaked, his throat as dry as the Borellian Plains, as he coughed. "Is it the air strike? The solenite?" He waved his hand in front of his face as he gingerly sat up, trying to clear the air enough to see.

"There's an air strike coming?" Saraesa repeated, pulling her jacket from her face, the shock and alarm registering clearly on her features. "Wait a centon . . . _what_ solenite? How much time do we have?"

"Where's Starbuck?" Apollo countered, suddenly aware that not only was his fully equipped helmet missing, but so was his friend.

Saraesa pointed a finger towards the devastation. It looked as though a mega pulsar had been fired at that corner of the landing bay. Then again the surrounding damage—or at least what he could see of it—looked as though the explosion had happened from within. Apollo's breath caught in his throat, as he tried to imagine how Starbuck had ended up in that disaster . . . or more likely had caused it. His eyes skimmed the blast area, searching for a sign of the Colonial Warrior.

"Where _is_ he?" he cried, more insistently this time.

In the hazy distance, the indistinct image of a man jogging towards them miraculously appeared. Apollo wiped irritably at his eyes as the image sharpened, and the familiar form of his friend materialised, as he tossed aside what could be a Boraton canister. He could hear Starbuck coughing harshly as he neared them. Microns later, the filthy warrior was squatting down beside him, the visor obstructing his features. The lower half of his face, his throat, his hands . . . all exposed areas of his skin were black from the smoke.

"We can get through." Starbuck's voice was raw as he coughed again. "But we need to move fast."

"Here," Saraesa pressed one of two life masks into his hand. "You're going to need it."

Starbuck nodded, tilting his helmet ever so slightly to secure the life mask. "We'll have to share. Let's go." Then he glanced at the stomach contents on the deck nearby, wrinkling his face in distaste. "By the way, how's the stomach?"

"It's . . . okay now." Apollo swallowed down his embarrassment, as his friend shrugged the issue off as though it hadn't happened. But what . . .?" Apollo started to ask, as Starbuck secured a life mask on him.

Then, without so much as an explanation, Starbuck put an arm around Apollo, and hauled him to his feet. Bearing weight on his leg was almost enough to make Apollo toss his mushies again, as burning fire shot up his leg once more. He gasped in pain, while in one fluid motion, Starbuck pulled him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

"Hey!" Apollo protested, as he felt Starbuck adjust his weight on his frame. "I can walk!" he told Starbuck indignantly.

"I'm through listening to you, buddy. If I'd just called for an air evac when you ripped up your leg to begin with, you wouldn't be in this mess," Starbuck replied, heading for the smouldering ruin on the double. "Saraesa, stay close. I doubt you'll be able to see anything in this smoke without the visual imaging system, and if we're going to buddy breathe . . ."

"Oh, don't worry. I don't plan to stray far," she returned, grabbing a hold of his jacket on his left side.

"Starbuck, what the frack happened here?" Apollo yelled.

"We needed a way out, and opening the hatch was contraindicated. I made a door," Starbuck returned.

"You did _what_?"

"Hey, I asked you at the time, and you didn't object, so I figured I'd just go ahead . . ."

"I was unconscious!"

" . . .Then I fired up a laser energizer in a fighter. It blasted a hole clean through the compound. The very best part, buddy, is that the Base's emergency system sealed the blast doors when the fire started, so the centurions can't even get through . . . at least for the moment," he explained exuberantly as he wound his way through debris. "We only have twenty-five centons to rendezvous at the pick-up point, or get to that shuttle we spotted on the way in . . ." he lapsed into a harsh cough as the smoke infiltrated his respiratory system along with the oxygen. He let the rest go unsaid as he began navigating his way through the worst of the damage with Saraesa drawn in tightly to his side, and Apollo over his shoulders, his head almost between them.

It was pure Starbuck, crazy, but brilliant.

Apollo would have laughed if Saraesa hadn't suddenly started coughing as though she was trying to dislodge a Battlestar from her throat. Starbuck abruptly stopped, removing his life mask with his free hand, and quickly placing it on the girl. "Easy now. Just breathe." His male chauvinistic tendencies seemed to have transposed into an untimely chivalry.

"Take mine," Apollo interjected, trying to pull his mask from his face, as Starbuck opened his mouth to protest. "Starbuck, for Sagan's sake, you're my feet _and_ my eyes! Take it!" If anybody needed a life mask, it was Starbuck. "That's an order!"

The convulsive coughing that suddenly wracked the blond warrior's frame seemed to tip the scale in Apollo's favour. Starbuck grabbed up the life mask, holding it to his face, and breathing deeply, even as he lurched ahead once again, with Saraesa alongside. His coughing began to subside, but not cease, and Apollo abruptly recalled that Starbuck had already made this trek once without a life mask to see if the way was passable. True to character, he'd been too impatient to wait for the proper safety equipment in his urgency to get them out of the Base.

The air grew so dense with acrid fumes that Apollo had to shut his eyes against the stinging as they trudged on. Smoke was still pouring from a wrecked fighter. It _couldn't _be much longer. His chest was burning with tightness, and he began hacking and coughing, inadvertently gasping more foul toxins into his system. Suddenly, the air around him began to cool. He blinked open his eyes as he felt the gentle kiss of the rain on his face.

"We made it . . ." he croaked.

Then, with a yelp of surprise, Starbuck pitched under him, and they plunged downward into the darkness.


	36. Chapter 36

Part 36

The ground vanished under Starbuck's feet, and for an instant he'd thought that he'd inadvertently started a landslide as he pushed Saraesa hard to the side. But as his astrum hit the wet, slippery mud, and the back of his head collided with the ground, sending his loosely fastened helmet flying off into the darkness, he tried to thank each and every lucky star that peeked out from the black cloud of the night sky that he had merely slipped and fallen, taking a spill down a slick and miry hillside that seemed to go on for endless metrons.

He tried to hold tight to Apollo, knowing that the last thing his friend needed was to roll down a mountainside just now. Then they hit a natural dip in the sludgy chute, and they were abruptly airborne. Starbuck's hands flailed for the brief micron it took to lose Apollo, and when he landed flat on his back, the impact stole Starbuck's last breath, leaving him gasping for air like a piscis out of water. A micron later, his head collided with a rock the size of a planetoid, and when he finally came to a stop in the murky, gooey dampness at the bottom of the hill, he lay there in a daze, feeling the soothing pattering of the rain on his face.

"Starbuck! Apollo! Are you guys okay?"

It was Saraesa. By the sound of her voice, she was quite a ways back up the hillside. Which was just as well, since he was still struggling to draw a breath, and was having trouble making anything above his toes respond to his mental commands. Somewhere nearby, Apollo was probably lying in a crumpled heap, in even worse condition after their latest wild ride. He opened his mouth to call for his friend, realizing abruptly that the squadron leader hadn't responded to Saraesa's call. However, only an incomprehensible gurgle came out.

"Apollo!" Saraesa called sharply.

Her voice was closer this time, maybe only a half dozen metrons uphill, at best, so she had to be moving quickly in the darkness. By the sounds of it, she had found Apollo. _Difficult to tell with mud oozing into your ears, Bucko._ Starbuck would have held his breath, waiting to hear his best friend's response, but he hadn't really started breathing quiet yet, at least that he could recall. His lungs felt near to bursting, and he managed to squeeze a painful gasp of air into his chest. Then another. One more. Each breath became easier, and slightly deeper, until he was reasonably sure he had relearned the art of respiration. Now if he could just move. Or talk. He tried to lift his head to overhear what was happening uphill . . .

A jagged pain shot through the back of his skull, making him feel like he would toss his mushies again. It was a small comfort that there was nothing left to toss, although his stomach was making a valiant go at it, nonetheless. Momentarily, he felt guilty for insinuating to Apollo that it was he who had vomited all over the landing bay. It had seemed amusing at the time, but now, in retrospect, it was just a cheap shot between friends. He'd have to fess up . . . over a game of pyramid and a grog, the very next time they were on furlon together. Then, as Starbuck tried to turn his head, the throbbing reached a new height. He closed his eyes tightly against the pain, hearing a faint moan, and vaguely realizing it was his own.

He just wished it didn't sound so bovine.

"Starbuck! Are you okay?"

Yeah, it was Apollo's voice, but all the same, when he opened his eyes, he was somewhat surprised to find his friend leaning over him. Apollo was in no shape to be scurrying over mountainsides with _that_ leg. Saraesa leaned in from his other side, concern in her lovely eyes. Oh, and a hint of impatience, as she grabbed Starbuck's wrist, and glanced at his chrono. Once again, he opened his mouth, trying to form the word 'yes'. Then it hit him that he was probably wrong.

"Easy, buddy," Apollo told him, his hands lightly running over him, searching for injuries. "You're going to be okay. Saraesa, find the biomonitor."

"Hades Hole, what is it with you guys?" Saraesa inserted. "You're fine, Starbuck's okay . . . I'd hate to see your definition of _bad_."

"Cute," said Apollo, voice strained. "Really cute."

Saraesa glanced at Apollo, cocking her head to the side, as she pulled off the backpack and started rooting through it, pulling out equipment, and discarding it. "Are you guys brothers, or just friends?"

Apollo smiled slightly, as his fingers made their way behind Starbuck's neck. "Both. In a way."

Well, it was a nice sentiment, and he knew that Apollo meant it, because the squadron leader never said anything he _didn't_ mean. If Starbuck took a milli-centon to think about it, he felt the same. Not that he knew what having a _real_ brother was like, although in his limited experience, they seemed to spend more time scrapping and arguing, than doing anything really fun. All the same, he would go to Hades Hole, and claw his way back up out of it again for Apollo, without hesitation. There weren't many people that had earned that kind of loyalty from Starbuck in his lifetime.

Apollo's fingers were combing through his mucky hair, his face only twenty or so centimetrons from his own. Starbuck closed his eyes and gasped with pain as the fingers found the spot that had collided with the rock.

"You hit your head?" Apollo confirmed.

Starbuck tried to nod, but his head was going supernova with the meagre effort. His mouth watered unpleasantly, trying, no doubt, to put something in his stomach that he would just have to throw up again. "Yeah . . ." he managed to gasp, sounding more like a wheezing whistle than a man.

"Is this it, Apollo?" Saraesa asked, handing him an electronic device.

"Frack," Apollo muttered a moment later, as he slammed the medical analyser into the palm of his hand. "It's dead."

"Can you move, Starbuck?" Saraesa asked, her features stiff, and her tone subdued.

"Give me . . . centon," Starbuck murmured. His voice sounded thick and muffled.

"What?" she asked.

"Give him a centon," Apollo repeated, grabbing his friend's hand. "Squeeze my hand, Starbuck." Concern—_real _concern—radiated from Apollo's eyes.

"Umm, okay," Starbuck breathed, his voice stronger, but still raw. "Maybe _two_ centons. Let's not rush into things."

The thought that he might not be able to do it was more terrifying than Starbuck was willing to admit. He felt the cold hand in his own, and saw Apollo trying to _will_ him to move. Starbuck's body felt asleep, but he wasn't sure if it was from exhaustion, the numbing cold, or from hitting his head. With more effort than it should have taken, he managed to weakly squeeze Apollo's hand.

"Nothing to it . . ." he murmured.

"Then squeeze the other one," Apollo replied, nodding his encouragement.

"Apollo . . . we're running out of time here." Saraesa told him.

Apollo's eyes flickered from Starbuck, to the girl, and back. "Squeeze my hand, buddy."

This time it was a little easier. It was as if, slowly, Starbuck's motor control was returning.

"That's it," Apollo encouraged him.

"Apollo, if there's an air strike coming, and we're caught on this mountainside . . ." Saraesa began, her tone more insistent, as she stood up.

"What do you want me to do?" Apollo snapped, glaring up at her. "Leave him?"

It felt like Starbuck had been sucker punched, as he looked up at his friend. _Leave me? _Somehow it never occurred to him he would die as a result of 'friendly fire', left behind because he was a hindrance to the mission. He closed his eyes, swallowing the huge lump in his throat that threatened to choke him. His chest seemed to tighten inexplicably, even though he had told himself time and time again that he would bravely and graciously sacrifice his life in the name of the Colonies. Well, _brave_ and _gracious_ both looked a whole lot different when a guy was lying helplessly up to his astrum in the muck and mire. . .

"I have to get these data crystals to the President, Apollo." Saraesa returned, her voice cold. "I can't do that if I get blown up in an air strike."

"Sagan's sake, Saraesa! He helped you escape a Cylon Brig!" Apollo returned angrily.

"That's what Colonial Warriors are sworn to do," she reminded him sharply. "Just as I'm sworn to deliver the details of the alliance with the Darthinians, no matter the cost!" As though conjured from mid air, a medallion suddenly appeared in her hand. There was no mistaking its origin. It was a Seal of the Lords. Just like the one Apollo had seen countless times on his father. There was no longer any doubt that Saraesa was truly an envoy, representing the President and Council. "I don't like it any more than you, but it's our duty, Apollo. We have about twenty centons to find our ride out of here and get airborne, before this whole mountainside is blown apart. There's no chance in Hades Hole that you can carry Starbuck with that leg of yours all torn up, and I need you to lead me to the ship. There's no other way." She held up the medallion, aware that its presence was like an edict from their ultimate commander. "You have to leave him."


	37. Chapter 37

Part 37

Apollo had been told countless times by men that he admired—his father, Academy instructors, and various mentors that had shaped and influenced the way he thought over the yahrens—that to at times he'd have make difficult choices in his career, choices that wouldn't be popular among his men, but would ultimately serve to protect or advance the interests of the Colonial Nation. Looking back, he realized he'd developed a certain amount of confidence that if such a situation arose, that he would find himself able to handle it with an aplomb that he'd either cultivated or inherited. Now, as he sat there with just such a choice flung in his face, he felt sick with guilt and uncertainty, instead of prepared and confident that he would do the right thing. This was different than he'd ever imagined. This was . . . _Starbuck_!

"He's my best friend . . ." Apollo told Saraesa, his emotional pain and turmoil even more evident than the anguish currently residing in his right leg, as it throbbed more insistently after his slide down the mountainside. Thankfully, after riding Starbuck like a mud sled most of the way down, he'd managed to grab hold of a small tree, stopping his descent after they had separated, instead of carrying on to the bottom like his friend had.

"You'd put Starbuck's interests before that of an entire nation of people?" Saraesa asked, her voice growing even sharper.

Apollo glanced down at Starbuck as her words hit home. His friend's blue eyes flickered open, staring up at him intently as he grimaced against his pain. Then his gaze flickered briefly over Saraesa, but his expression was guarded. Unreadable.

"Go . . ." Starbuck choked out, his arm rising shakily as he gripped Apollo's jacket. If it was possible, he paled even more with that slight movement. But the death grip on Apollo's fatigues was worth noting. "She's right. Get the frack out of here . . ."

Maybe if Starbuck had begged him to take him along, it would have been different. Maybe not. But seeing his friend's bravery in the face of virtually certain death seemed to be the deciding factor that clicked a confusing jumble of contradicting and vacillating thoughts into place. That, and Apollo felt the grim determination in Starbuck's grip. Will and determination like that was what would save the warrior, if Apollo could only refocus that energy . . . "I'm _not_ leaving you, Starbuck," he replied stiffly as Starbuck looked at him in a kind of surprise that was as disconcerting as it was gut wrenching. He was willing to bet those were words the former orphan hadn't heard often in his lifetime. "Come on, buddy. We need to get you moving. We have to get out of here. _All_ of us."

Apollo leaned forward, putting his arms around Starbuck's shoulders, and pulling him upward to a sitting position. Immediately, Starbuck started heaving, his entire upper body shaking with the effort, and Apollo waited for the tortured retching to finally cease before he tilted his friend's chin up and stared into his eyes.

"All right now?" he asked.

"Are you . . . _kidding_?" Starbuck gasped, wiping feebly with a muddy hand at his watering eyes and nose, his sweaty face a mask of pain.

"You know, you could work _with_ me on this . . ." Apollo grumbled pointedly. Saraesa sighed impatiently and loudly above them.

Starbuck groaned, as his body convulsed, once again trying to evacuate a stomach that was obviously empty. He spat out the resultant saliva, and wiped at his mouth, managing to smear even more mud on his face. Either Starbuck had a concussion, or the head injury was even more severe than Apollo had first imagined.

"Do you want me to end this?" Apollo asked quietly. How many times had Starbuck suggested that they do the same because of Apollo's leg injury? Truthfully, neither of them wanted to be the one to concede failure because of weakness.

"Don't you frackin' well dare!" Starbuck exploded vehemently, his face contorting as he raised a trembling hand to the back of his head.

"Then get up!" Apollo returned, tylinium in his tone.

Starbuck nodded ever so slightly, his breathing rapid. "Up . . . right . . . let's go."

Saraesa squatted down then, meeting Apollo's gaze across his friend, as she positioned herself under Starbuck's left shoulder. She shrugged as they both looked at her in surprise.

"Well, if you're determined to bring him along, then you're going to need my help. All together now," she said pragmatically. "On three. One, two, three!"

Together, they pulled Starbuck to his feet, supporting him as the warrior weaved, and his knees buckled, while he gasped and retched again.

"You know . . . this might be a good time for drugs," Starbuck rasped, as he managed to straighten his knees, while clutching tightly to Apollo and Saraesa.

"Not with a head injury, buddy," Apollo returned regrettably, feeling a building pressure in his injured leg. He couldn't give in to the comfort of narcotics this time. He'd have to tough it out. It was now up to Apollo to lead them back to the shuttle, and get them out of here. His and Starbuck's roles had abruptly reversed. He secured his grip on his friend, trying to get his bearings as he pulled his scanner off his belt and checked their position in relation to the Colonial shuttle they had seen. If they hurried, they just might make it before four squadrons of Vipers turned this Base into a raging cauldron of broiling cataclysm.


	38. Chapter 38

Part 38

_Just a little further, just a little further . . . _

It was Starbuck's mantra as he stumbled along in the darkness, each step precipitating a lancing pain through the back of his skull, which in turn caused another session of dry heaves. This new agony totally eclipsed all his other nuisance pains acquired since this mission had begun, although the jolt of electricity his arm had taken was beginning to burn with a new intensity that he was finding it difficult to ignore any longer. The whole package was complete and utter misery, and in reality could be only marginally better than a quick and violent death beneath the strafing runs of four squadrons of Vipers.

Or so he kept telling himself.

"Almost there, buddy," Apollo encouraged him.

"If you give up now, Darlin', I'll personally kick your astrum from here back to Caprica City," Saraesa added with her usual panache. "_If_ they'll have you."

Starbuck simply couldn't rally the strength required for a comeback, and that in itself was more disheartening than all the pain and suffering. He'd love to give Saraesa the full benefit of his most caustic wit, since she had tried to dump him on a mountainside, and leave him to an untimely death. His legs were on auto pilot, trudging along between the other two, not even aware where his next steps would fall. His eyes were half-closed, and too bleary to focus anyhow.

_Just a little further, just a little further . . ._ Lords, he would give just about anything to just be able to lie down for five centons!

"There it is," Apollo announced, more than a little relief in his tone as he spotted the transport. By now he was limping heavily, favouring his injured leg heavily.

"Wait a centon," Saraesa inserted suspiciously. "What's a Colonial shuttle doing here?"

"What do you _think_?" Apollo returned dryly, as they broke through the vegetation.

Saraesa hesitated, and Starbuck floundered as his left side sought to stop, while his right followed Apollo's lead, and kept on going. Inevitably, he collapsed to the ground somewhere between them, groaning wretchedly as the sudden jarring caused his stomach to react convulsively once again. Too weak and exhausted to move, he lay there spitting out the accumulation of acrid mucous in his mouth, as the back of his head threatened to split open and release the demons ricocheting around his skull.

"You know damn well that this is the colonel's shuttle, Apollo!" Saraesa exploded. "We can't take the colonel's shuttle! It's against the rules!"

"Oh?" Apollo challenged her. "Show it to me in the handbook, Saraesa."

"Okay, so maybe it's not written _specifically_," Saraesa conceded, "but it's certainly implied!"

"Just like infiltrating the Arduum's observation level, and utilizing the surveillance system is generally considered to be against the rules?" Apollo inserted. "Yet you and Starbuck did that too."

Yeah, it was all out in the open. It was a sure sign that Apollo was exhausted when he was flagrantly breaking the rules of the Arduum. Warriors were not to even utter the words during the exercise.

"It was _his_ idea!" Saraesa returned defensively as Apollo knelt down beside Starbuck. "By the way, I know he conveniently forgot to mention it, but we also ended up locking the colonel in a storage locker. Namara's going to have us cleaning turbo flushes with our toothbrushes until graduation."

"You did what?" Apollo replied, aghast. Then he started laughing aloud. "_Star-buck!_"

"Hey, you're _both_ breaking the rules by . . . by talking about the colonel _and_ the Arduum." Starbuck gasped as his stomach finally stopped heaving. He took a couple deep breaths before he continued. "But since I'm easily led astray . . . there was no other way, Apollo. Besides, I didn't realize until later that it was Colonel Namara . . ." He still remembered the sudden feeling of impending doom when the surveillance vids displayed Namara's flushed and angry visage, as he tried to escape the tiny room that his cadets had locked him in.

"I'm not _criticising_ you, buddy," Apollo replied reassuringly. "I agreed with you from the beginning. They've drilled into us in officer's training from day one at the Academy, that we utilize every opportunity to our advantage. The Arduum is no exception. Yeah, we might have reinterpreted a few rules, but we still achieved our goal and finished the mission."

"Well, I for one would like to finish the mission _alive _. . ." Starbuck told him, after having a few blessed moments of rest. He glanced in the direction of the shuttle, and then up at Saraesa, holding her gaze. "If you don't mind."

She didn't flinch. "It wasn't personal, Starbuck."

"_Really_?" he managed to drawl. "I guess I have a hard time believing that."

"I was just doing my duty. You were a liability."

"Yeah? That's not the first time I've heard that, lady . . ." Bitterness dripped from his words.

"Starbuck, _don't_," Saraesa inserted, taking a step forward, holding out her hand and then dropping it after her eyes met his icy blue ones. She spoke hesitantly. "I've never had a . . . a friend or colleague . . . that would take the chances that you two do for each other . . ."

"Little wonder," Starbuck returned, feeling a twinge of guilt when she dropped his gaze, and turned to look back at the shuttle. After all, it was just an exercise. But it felt so damned real with everybody role playing, and both he and Apollo getting injured . . . The terror he'd felt was certainly real. "Hey, you were in a tough spot . . ." He shrugged, not really knowing what to say. The damage had been done, and it wasn't like they would be seeing anything of each other after this assignment. He'd never laid eyes on her before the Arduum, and probably never would again afterwards.

She turned guardedly, and nodded at him briefly.

Starbuck sighed, and glanced at his chrono. The solenite charges that Apollo had planted were figuratively exploding as they spoke, as the Control Centre, fuel bunkers and munitions dumps simultaneously erupted. All over the Cylon Base, the mass devastation would be registering in the Arduum's network, and Cylons would be responding accordingly. Hopefully, by dying. They would never even detect the massive air strike moving in that would finish them off. "On the lighter side, we started this whole thing out by stealing the colonel's ride, and I just can't resist the irony that we're doing it again. We _have_ to take his shuttle."

"How's that?" Saraesa asked from metrons away, as she slowly turned and made her way back to them.

A little more reluctantly this time, she moved in beside him as she and Apollo hoisted Starbuck up to his feet. He sucked a sharp breath in between his teeth, and held on to them tightly as his head began to swim, and his knees started to buckle once again.

_Just a little further, just a little further . . ._

"You tell it," Starbuck groaned to Apollo.

"Starbuck and I were in town on secton-end a couple days ago," Apollo began to explain as they half-dragged the warrior towards the shuttle. "He'd already had a few warnings about being out past curfew, and was going on report if they caught him again. Anyhow, we lost track of time, and the next thing we knew we were scrambling for a way back to the Academy."

Starbuck smiled slightly, as he regained his feet, trying to focus on the memories of that night, instead of the throbbing in his head. Apollo was editing out all the best parts with his recounting of their adventure. Gambling, womanising, and carousing from one hot spot to the next . . . truthfully, they'd had way too much to drink as they celebrated Apollo's natal day in the heart of Caprica City's nightlife. It had been Starbuck's responsibility to make sure they made it back on time . . . and then somewhere along the way it had ceased to be important to him whether he was put on report yet one more time for exceeding curfew. Grog and ambrosa often had that effect on him, he'd noticed.

"Starbuck spotted a military transport and _somehow_ talked me into believing that we were simply doing our duty by returning it to the Academy, since it obviously belonged there to begin with," Apollo continued as they boarded the open shuttle, none of them surprised that it was unguarded. In the universe of the Arduum, it didn't exist. It merely transported the Sentinels of the Academy training exercise here to observe the cadets involved, as they carried out their various assignments.

"And the transport belonged to Colonel Namara?" Saraesa guessed with a wry chuckle. "I never met him until I was chosen for the Arduum. He's an imposing man."

"Uh huh," Apollo nodded, as they set Starbuck down in a seat. "Of course, the sentries on duty at the Caprica Academy gate reported it to the colonel when he arrived hopping mad in a civilian hack a couple centars later."

"Busted," Starbuck murmured with a smile. It had been worth it. It had been an outstanding night, and the added adventure of actually getting back before curfew had been the _pièce de résistance._

"Is _that_ what you two are doing in the Arduum?" Saraesa asked, as she took the co-pilot's seat.

A technologically advanced simulated Academy training exercise, the Arduum was usually reserved for upper classmen, and considered a defining field test before graduation. All cadets were outfitted with control helmets and visors that digitally identified "Cylons" and "Colonial Warriors". Sensors in the clothing of participants registered "shots" fired by sim-compatible weapons, and the data was then rendered as a "kill", "injury", or "miss". Once "in the game", participants weren't to deviate from their assigned role, or interfere if they were "killed". Points were awarded for leadership, teamwork, marksmanship, map reading and land navigation, communications, tactics, combat, field engineering, field medicine, innovation, and physical conditioning. Cadets were both monitored and evaluated throughout the exercise by Sentinels through networked surveillance systems in the Base. In the event of serious injury, it was permissible to concede defeat and request assistance, but doing so would result in failure. Failure was "death". Oh, and bonus points were awarded in the event that the mission was a success.

Apollo nodded, taking the pilot's seat, and settling into it with a groan of relief. Slowly, he stretched out his leg. "Yeah, somewhat. Colonel Namara decided to throw us to the daggits, and assigned us a mission that had a low probability of success."

"Especially hung over," Starbuck added, belting himself in as the rear hatch began to close. He felt his body sinking into the seat, and ignored the fact that he was covering Namara's command position with mud. "Anyhow, he told us if we didn't avail ourselves well, that we would be up for expulsion from the Academy." He still couldn't believe that an immature, drunken prank had almost lead to their expulsion, and technically still could. Colonel Namara _really_ needed to get a sense of humour. "Is the scanner array in this bird wired into the Arduum's network?"

"No," Apollo replied as he looked over the instruments, while the engines hummed to life. "I'm not reading any telemetry from the Base."

Centons later, they were airborne, and heading out, in the opposite direction of an approaching attack force.

"I'm reading Vipers! Coming in en masse from the east. No response detected from the Cylon Base," Saraesa reported. "Looks like we made it out before the strike, and your mission is a success. One more Cylon base is about to be blown to Hades Hole!"

"What was your assignment?" Apollo asked.

"Totally unrelated," she admitted. "I'm from the Tauran Academy. Just as I said, I was supposed to get these data crystals back to Caprica City." Then she smiled. "As far as I know, there's no such race as the Darthinians. Has a nice ring to it though, don't you think?"

"Where did you get the Seal of the Lords?" Apollo asked. "Is it real?"

"It's just a copy," Saraesa replied.

"Damned convincing," Apollo replied.

"It's supposed to be," she replied, glancing back at Starbuck.

"What's the ETA to the Academy?" Starbuck asked, his head tilted back against the seat, and his eyes closed. He might actually catch forty winks before they arrived . . . if Apollo let him.

"About a centar, Starbuck, but don't fall asleep," Apollo returned. "How's the head?"

"My head feels like an ovum that was just cracked open," Starbuck returned honestly. And his left hand had gone numb, and his arm was beginning to swell up. But that was another story. "How's the leg?"

"If it gets any worse, I'm going to jettison it out the jump chute," Apollo returned. Then he frowned as the comm began to crackle to life. "Oh oh . . ."

"_This is Colonel Namara of the Arduum Base. I order the mong-raking miscreants that are in that transport to return to base immediately_! _That's my shuttle, goddamn it_!"


	39. Epilogue

Epilogue

Colonel Namara had rescinded his order that the three cadets return to the Base once it was pointed out to him that a four squadron air strike was about to commence, and the manoeuvre might be disrupted by the return of a shuttlecraft that the Viper pilots were supposed to ignore because in the reality of the Arduum, it didn't exist. When Saraesa, with her characteristic outspokenness, then opened communications again to report that both Apollo and Starbuck were seriously injured, and needed immediate medical attention, the threesome were directed to the landing field at the Caprica City Academy.

A medical unit and hoverstretchers met them on the tarmac, and Apollo and Starbuck were both transferred to the infirmary. It wasn't much longer before Apollo was in surgery, and Starbuck was admitted for treatment of a severe concussion. Shortly thereafter he followed Apollo to surgery when they realized he had an electrical burn to his left arm that varied from second to third degree in intensity, an with infection setting in rapidly.

_The next day . . . _

Starbuck pushed the little button that the med tech had given him, sighing as he was infused once again with a little bit of heaven. The burning pain that had been creeping up the arm with the regeneration sleeve on it was driven back like the hounds of Hades Hole, and the throbbing in his head that Dr. Alpheus said there was nothing they could do about, also retreated until it was a comparatively gentle pulsation at the back of his skull.

It made a guy wonder . . . if one dose was good, what would a second do?

He hit the button again, merely out of curiosity. A faint beep from the bio-pump reminded him of what Med Tech Zhi had already said. There was a lockout mechanism to prevent him from overdosing. He sighed again, this time in annoyance. It also prevented him from using the analgesic pump to depart the infirmary on a narcotic induced trip to Elysium.

"Are you that sore, or just bored?" Apollo asked him from the next biobed.

Starbuck opened his eyes, glancing over at his friend. Apollo's right hand was resting lightly on his bulky leg dressing while intravenous antibiotics infused into him from a bio-pump. The squadron leader was similarly outfitted with an analgesic pump. Starbuck grinned at the contemplative look Apollo was giving him. "Bored."

"You really shouldn't fool around with . . ." Apollo abruptly shut his mouth, rolling his eyes in self-mockery. "Oh, wait. What am I thinking? Colonel Namara is inevitably going to show up here, thundering in self-righteous anger, no doubt, to tell us whether or not we're going to be expelled, so obviously you're going to pick _now_ to follow Morpheus into insensibility."

"Well, I was raised never to overstay a welcome," smiled the other.

"God's teeth, Starbuck!" growled Apollo. "Our careers are hanging by a thread, and you spout flip . . ." He sighed. "Can't you be serious for five microns in a row?"

Starbuck rolled over towards his friend, raising an eyebrow. "Apollo, I entered a restricted zone to bypass the Cylons and sneak a look at the surveillance network, I inadvertently locked Colonel Namara in a storage locker, we missed our rendezvous for pick-up, and we stole the Colonel's shuttle." He waited a beat. "Serious enough for you?"

Apollo considered that before he nodded slightly. "You have a point. In that case, I noticed the last time that Zhi was updating your medical file that you can bypass the six-centon lockout in the programming mode. The access code is 007."

Starbuck grinned, suitably impressed with the acumen of his friend. It was _so_ typically Apollo. Although he would never actually bypass the programming to use the medical pump for recreational purposes himself, he'd already observed that it was possible, and had figured out how to do so . . . probably because he was wondering when Starbuck would get around to trying. "You're coming along nicely. I've just about finished your training."

"Thanks, I think," Apollo replied dryly.

Centons later, the infirmary doors were thrust open, and Colonel Namara burst into the room, his flint grey eyes combing over the area for all of a milli-centon before he spotted the bedridden cadets.

"_There_ you are . . ."

It seemed more like a snarl than a statement, and for a milli-centon his lips seemed to curl back over his teeth. Any instant now, Namara would start frothing at the maw, and hurling thunderbolts at the offending miscreants. If it wasn't for the cold fear that suddenly gripped Starbuck, drying out his mouth, and twisting his guts, it _might _have been funny.

Starbuck pushed the little button that the med tech had given him again.

"_Starbuck_ . . ." Apollo murmured warningly as the pump _beeped_.

Namara marched towards them, his back ramrod straight, his boots clapping menacingly on the shiny infirmary floors. It was like a wave of oppression, a tsunami of pure doom, rolling towards them, bent on their ultimate humiliation and destruction.

_Or maybe you shouldn't have taken that last hit of painkiller, Bucko . . . _

Namara came to a halt between their beds, looking from one cadet to the other, his features unreadable . . .other than the complete look of disgust and derision that dominated the face of most senior officers, of course. Both young men reflexively snapped to attention, or as close as they could come to it in bed.

"At ease, _cadets_," Namara snapped.

Starbuck gulped, taking a deep breath and waiting to hear his fate. His biomonitor began beeping, alerting the medical staff to the pounding of his heart, and the sudden rush of adrenaline that made him want to race outside, find the colonel's current ride, and take off to the outermost edge of the Colonies to live his life as a hermit . . . at least until he opened his own chancery, recruited a chorus line of beautiful, topless woman for entertainment, and founded a sanctuary for socialators (who were being persecuted in at least one Gemonese community by members of the Otori Sect, but that was another story altogether).

"I won't belabour this, _cadets_. I know you're anxious for a decision," Namara told them, his voice crisp as he stood with his feet spread at shoulder width, and his hands lightly resting on his hips. Crisp? No, actually his voice was _brittle, _and would likely shatter at any moment. He was military through and through, from his closely cropped hair to his highly polished boots, to his uniform trousers where you could cut your finger if you touched the creases. "I told you going in that if you performed well in the Arduum, that you would prove yourselves worthy of continuing to serve in the Colonial Service, despite your . . . _irresponsible_ behaviour while on leave in Caprica City. You successfully completed your mission, and carried on despite a litany of injuries, utilizing some . . . He drew a deep breath, and rose up for a micron on his toes, before exhaling. "Some rather _creative_ initiatives, such as infiltrating the Arduum's surveillance network, locking _me_ in a closet, and blowing a fracking big hole in the side of my landing bay with live, Arduum-prohibited artillery in order to get out."

Starbuck winced under Namara's penetrating scowl. He'd conveniently forgotten about that. He glanced over at Apollo.

"Eyes on me, Cadet!" Namara's voice snapped him back to attention. "Your squadron leader can't help you now, son." He took a step closer to the blond warrior. "You think it's amusing, don't you, Starbuck. That I threw you into an Academy exercise that you should have been flailing through with your level of training and expertise, and you came through it smelling like a summer rosa." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Hmm?"

"Begging the Colonel's pardon, sir," Starbuck replied haltingly, "this rosa is black and blue with a concussion and a third degree burn. I won't be winning any blue ribbons at the Caprican State Fair . . .sir."

Namara's scowl deepened. At any moment, the man's teeth would crack.

"In Starbuck's defence, sir, and my own," Apollo inserted quickly, "we discussed our strategy at the outset and both agreed that since the rules we . . . uh, _bent_ regarding the Arduum were more of an _understanding_, rather than actually written down, that we were well within our rights to . . ."

Colonel Namara turned on Apollo, laughing harshly. "Sagan's sakes, son, you should be a protector, not a warrior." Then he blew out a breath, shaking his head. "No, forget I ever said that. I'm proud to know I'm contributing to the man you will become when you graduate from this Academy, Cadet Apollo."

Apollo closed his mouth in stunned surprise, before finally replying, "Thank you, sir."

"That goes for you too, _Cadet_ Starbuck," Namara rounded on the other. "All I can say is I'm glad _we_ signed you up, before you turned to a dedicated life of larceny and formed your own criminal syndicate."

"Uh . . . I don't quite know what to say to that, Colonel . . ." Starbuck stammered.

"I imagine not," Namara chuckled. "Men, I've been overseeing the Arduum for nigh on five yahrens now, waiting and wondering when some cadet would come along with enough balls to break the rules, and rely on pure guts, creativity, and determination to win this thing!" He nodded at them both approvingly. "War isn't about following the rules mindlessly, it's about using every opportunity at your disposal to beat the enemy. To outmanoeuvre, outthink, and out-savvy him." Then he smiled slightly. "So, when you're released from the infirmary, you'll both be returning to classes, that little black mark that precipitated all this fun and frolic erased from your permanent records."

"Thank you, sir," Apollo saluted.

Starbuck followed suit. "Yes, thank you, Colonel Namara."

Namara saluted smartly, the epitome of the finely polished warrior. "And after classes you'll be reporting to the hangar to begin cleaning and waxing each and every Colonial class ship that we have docked there. Once you've completed that small duty, you can recommence your secton-end leaves." He smiled as they groaned in concert, then Namara leaned close, till his gaze filled Starbuck's vision. "And if you _ever_ take my transport again, no, if you ever so much as _look_ at it . . . you'll be down on your hands and knees in the parade square, scrubbing it with your toothbrush until it sparkles."

"Uh, sir . . . the parade square is cement. It never sparkles," Starbuck couldn't help but add. Apollo groaned.

"Ever hear of eternity, Cadet?" Namara asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I understand it's a _long_ time . . ."

"And I can make it seem even longer, Starbuck." Namara added. "_Do_ we have an understanding?"

Starbuck blew out a breath between his teeth. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Namara glanced at his chrono. "Now, I believe Cadet Saraesa was waiting to wish you both well before she returned to the Tauran Academy." He glanced over his shoulder to see the attractive young woman waiting somewhat hesitantly at the door, and marched towards her. "Come in, Cadet. I'm just heading out."

"Thank you, Colonel," she saluted him and he returned it smartly before leaving the infirmary. Then she glanced at Starbuck almost shyly, before slowly walking over.

"Uh . . ." Apollo murmured, grabbing his crutches and scooting his astrum to the side of the biobed as Med Tech Zhi arrived in time to disconnect him from his intermittent IV therapy and attach his portable analgesia pump to his infirmary gown. "I think this is my cue to take a walk. Have a safe journey home, Saraesa."

She smiled at him, appreciating his discretion, as he slowly, but surely, started moving away from them. "Thanks, Apollo."

Saraesa had crossed Starbuck's mind a time or two hundred since he'd been admitted to the infirmary. He'd never met a woman quite like her before who kept him on his toes constantly, but when she had readily suggested abandoning him to Apollo, it had knocked him for a loop. Who was the real Saraesa? The firebrand that had exchanged verbal spars with him, exuded a sensuality that he had found irresistible, and had seemed fearless, even in a Cylon Brig, or the single-minded obsessive warrior who would stop at nothing to succeed at her mission? As she took a step closer, he could readily admit to himself that he wasn't looking forward to a final dramatic scene with her.

He pushed the little button that the med tech had given him, hoping to ease his pain.

"Hi," she murmured.

"Hi," he returned unenthusiastically.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Fine as in, 'I have a third degree burn, but it's not worth mentioning', or fine as in, _really_ fine."

He smiled slightly at that. The firebrand was back. "Really fine."

"I'm glad," she nodded, looking around uncomfortably.

"I hear you're heading out," he mentioned, to fill the sudden, uneasy silence. "When?" Then as she dropped his gaze and shuffled uneasily from foot it foot, it occurred to him his timing had been unfortunate. "I didn't mean that _quite_ the way it sounded."

"Of course you didn't," she returned dryly, glancing at her chrono. "Thirty centons. My shuttle's on the tarmac now."

"A lot can happen in thirty centons."

She looked at him curiously. "Oh?"

"Sure."

"How's that?" she asked.

"Well," he swung his legs over the edge of the biobed, "I could wish you well, and say it's been interesting . . ."

"Or?" she asked, crossing her arms protectively in front of her.

"Or we could kiss and make up." He turned on his best smile. The one that could win over the greater majority of the female half of the population within 1.8 milli-centons when it was turned up to full power. Truthfully, he hated parting on bad terms with any woman, and was willing to at least give her a chance to explain herself . . . if she chose to.

She smiled fleetingly before raising her eyebrows at him. "I didn't think you'd be able to forgive me for what I did . . . _almost_ did."

"I've been thinking about what you said." Starbuck shrugged slightly. "About never having a friend that would risk it all for you . . . " He chewed his lip for a moment. "There's been a few times in my life where I wasn't fortunate enough to have friends like I've made here at the Academy." He paused, as she studied him intently, seeming content to listen for a change, rather than argue or debate. It was truly amazing. "I've spent most of my life looking out for yours truly," he tapped his chest. "And it wasn't until I met Apollo that I learned what friendship and loyalty were all about."

"You were an orphan, weren't you?"

"How did you know that?" he asked.

"Searching all your life for a place to belong . . . and when you find it, you'd do anything to defend it." Even though she was looking right at him, she seemed to be seeing far beyond him.

"You're an orphan too," he realized.

She nodded. "Look, Starbuck . . . I didn't come here to compare hard luck stories . . . I just wanted to explain why I did, _what_ I did."

"Go on."

"I just wanted you out of the game, Starbuck. You needed to get to a medic. Sagan, both of you did! But you were both too stubborn to concede defeat, even at the risk of your health. It just didn't seem justified to me. It was a fracking exercise, goddamn it. It wasn't worth your lives."

"We had more on the line than the average warrior, Saraesa," Starbuck reminded her. "If we failed, we might have been expelled from the Academy."

"I didn't know that then . . ." she met his eyes imploringly, impelling him to understand. "By the time you explained it, the damage was done."

"So . . . this was all about you . . . you being _worried_ about me?" he asked. Of course, he could be misinterpreting her, and she might be about to slam him with a real zinger . . .

"I was willing to try _anything_ to get you some medical attention. The truth is, I was scared senseless that you were going to die out there. You're both crazy! It's like you have a death wish!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, _darlin_' . . ." he smiled, reaching out a hand, and grabbing hers. He pulled her to him, enfolding her in his arms. "You know, generally leaving a guy on a mountainside to die is a bad way to tell him that you _like_ him."

She laughed humourlessly, resting her head against his chest and sighing as her arms crept around him. "Kind of like throwing rocks at each other when we were kids."

"Yeah," he murmured, kissing her head, and running his fingers through her silky hair.

"_Honeybunch_?" she murmured, leaning back slightly to look up at him.

"Hmm?"

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?"

He grinned. "How about I kiss you 'so long' instead, and then I borrow the colonel's shuttle to come visit you next sectar?"

"Sounds good," she replied with her smile that could sink a thousand ships, as her arms crept around his neck, and their lips met in a tender kiss.

Meanwhile, a few metrons away, Apollo groaned at the tail end of the conversation he had just overheard, and then pushed the little button that the med tech had given him . . . hoping to ease his pain.

The End

_With thanks to Senmut, my beta reader extraordinaire, for his timely adds, edits and inspirations._

_Lisa Zaza_


End file.
